The Shmowie and the Pig.

In a park near our house lived a creature called the Howie Shmowie. At least that’s what my dad said its name was and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. There was also a Nancy Prantsy. It’s hard to describe the Shmowie or the Prantsy because neither my sister nor I ever actually saw them. Dad mentioned something about big ears, oversized flat feet, perpetual smiles. I really don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I do know. The Shmowie and the Prantsy saved our bacon. 

It all began in that park, the Saranac Municipal Park, where we used to hang out hoping to catch a glimpse of a Howie Shmowie or a Nancy Prantsy. We’d hide in the trees. There were many great climbing trees you could even walk around in. We had a favourite, even named the branches as though they were streets. There was a Spruce street, Pine, Oak. Mom didn’t like us climbing up there so of course and obviously we simply didn’t tell her. We didn’t say a word about it although we spent most afternoons on Willow, Maple or one of the other streets waiting, hoping. My description of these events may seem odd or even simple because oddly enough I‘m both, apparently always have been. But they’re none-the-less real and true.

We never did see a Shmowie or a Prantsy or even a Shmeter. Yeah, apparently there was a Peter Shmeter as well. Well well we never did see any of them but one day as we sat in the tree we did see a pig. Nancy snorted and then wondered aloud why the heck a pig was wandering through Saranac Municipal Park. I really didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t wondering because the pig wasn’t wandering. I was however wondering why the heck a pig was running hard with a frayed length of rope wrapped ‘round its throat squealing plaintively, clearly and loudly freaking out through the park. So we quickly climbed down and ran after. It didn’t take long to catch up with the pig because although it was small enough it was also really rather ridiculously and unrealistically rotund. It took us longer to convince it that we only wanted to help.

Speaking a kind of pig-latin we were able to talk the critter down as we huddled together near the brook. Nancy and I held onto him or her from either side until it relaxed, grunted and then finally put its snoot lovingly in my lap. That was such a lovingly thing to do that I immediately felt like taking it home. But I knew mom would go hog-wild at the very idea of having a pig as a pet. She didn’t let us have any pets at all: not a dog or cat, not so much as a gerbel. 

So we continued to snuggle together near the brook at the far end of the big field. The big field ended where the deep ravine began and the deep ravine ended where the long road to our house began. There were lots of rocks, stones and clumps of twigs and stuff in the deep ravine. The brook itself was teeming with tad-poles and froggies, fishies and even turtles sometimes. Nancy tried to get the pig to open up about where it had come from and what had scared it so horribly. Only it either didn’t understand, was unwilling to share or was simply left speechless by the events of the day, until we heard shouting coming from up in the big field. 

Our piggie let out a squeal that made us jump. Luckily the rushing gushing flushing water of the brook flushed away the squeal to a great extent and we swiftly crawled into a bush. Only the pig flattened the bush so we even more swiftly crawled into another much larger one. And we hid there watching, listening. Our pig began to shake rattle and roll as I tried to keep my hand over its mouth and Nancy hugged it tightly. The shouting got louder until within hardly a few more minutes we saw a man and woman up at the top. They were arguing with each other. The piggie wanted to run but we were able to convince it that its best option was to roll with us.

The lady wasn’t tall or short but she was a little fluffy, a mid-sized little fluffy character with angry unruly hair. She looked like maybe a farmer or gardener, a cranky farmer or gardener who wore blue faded overalls after-all with a lotta dirt and she carried a rope. The man was taller thinner with thick black beard on his chin but strangely no hair at all up top. He wore faded jeans that were similarly dirt-encrusted and a very old torn checkered shirt. He may also have been a farmer or gardner but honestly he just looked mean, also cranky. And whatever he was carrying glistened as the sun-light glanced off. 

We heard the lady holler at him, something about he shoulda done ‘it’ when he had the chance. The man kept insisting the pig wasn’t plump enough which I thought a pretty silly statement considering it had rolled onto my legs which hurt like heck. 

The two of them looked this way and that until one went this way, the other went that while we stayed very very still in the middle. Even the pig stayed very very still as the lady passed not far from our bush, not far at all, and we heard her say something that does not bear repeating. Mom always told us that if you don’t have anything nice to say you shouldn’t say anything at all. So I assumed that conversely meant if someone else says something not nice you shouldn’t repeat what he or she said at all. Suffice it to repeat that it convinced both Nancy and I that we really needed to, really had to, really wanted to take that sweet living breathing rotund being home safely with us somehow. Mom would simply need to adjust.

The lady was closest, too close for comfort actually, which did cause us significant discomfort. Our piggie pressed its head to my chest while Nancy and I stroked, petted, held on tightly. The lady kept calling to the bearded man who kept calling back. He was spooked. He found it odd that the pig was nowhere to be found. He found it odd that they couldn’t see it or even hear it. The lady scratched her unruly hair and muttered between calls. She felt the pig’s presence, so near, so close, so near, but why couldn’t she hear anything? The three of us hardly breathed. I could see her boots. I could see the rope, frayed at one end. I could see two quite different possible futures as I stubbornly held on to the one I wanted, and our piggie kept pressing its head to my chest. 

The strangest aspect of that part was the way the daylight faded almost as if sorta all of a sudden like. It was too early for the fading light. It was not a fading light time of day. But there it was, fading. And then there came the bellowing harrowing frightening sound of screaming from up in the big field. The lady obviously had to run after the man who was running after something or other, although more likely from something or other, screaming. 

The lady ran up out of the deep ravine, across the big field, through the trees to find out what had happened. We knew, of course. It was the Shmowie, the Prantsy, perhaps even the Shmeter. What else could it have been? Who else could it have been? One minute they were practically right on top of us and the next... poof, gone. Dad used to say they’d always be there watching over us just as we watched over each other. And so they‘d presented us with a tremendous opportunity to make our escape. 

We got home before the storm. With barely a minute before dinner and none to spare we shoved Daisy into the tool-shed. We named her Daisy somewhere along the long road to our house. Admittedly we didn’t give it a lotta thought. We didn’t even actually know her gender, not exactly. But Nancy and I both felt right about it, there wasn’t a lotta time and Daisy voiced no complaints whatsoever. So we shoved Daisy into the tool-shed before going into the kitchen just as though it was a completely normal evening, like that was the absolute spitting image of every other evening. I sauntered in the way I do, Nancy pranced in as was her want and Peter of course was already at the table. He was the eldest of us all and he played by the rules.  

“Howie your hands are filthy, go wash,” mom commanded. “Nancy you too.” It was a completely normal evening, like that was the absolute spitting image of every other evening. Nancy sat in her usual place, head down contemplating her dinner. I sat in my usual place playing with the turnips on my plate. Peter sat in his usual place watching us carefully, suspicously. He knew something was not normal. He knew it was far from a completely normal evening. Mom moved gracefully from the stove to her usual place at the table while dad’s usual place was as usual empty. He rarely got home before eight. 

“Why aren’t you eating?,” Peter asked Nancy. ”Aren’t you hungry?,” he added with a patronizing grin. “I’m eating,” she barked back at him. In fact we‘d both eaten our rice, turnips and even the spinach. But neither of us had touched the other stuff at all and I knew neither of us ever would again. Mom of course had by then noticed, was opening her mouth to say something when there came a god-awful racket from out back. “It must be the wind,” I said a little too quickly, a little too loudly, as Nancy and I looked over at each other. Peter immediately ran out the door followed closely by mom, then Nancy and I together.

The door to the tool-shed was wide open and all manner of equipment was strewn around inside. Two types of rakes and a shovel lay half in the shed and half on the patio stones outside. And Daisy was walking around on the wet grass in the yard. Mom positively screeched. Peter laughed uproariously as Nancy and I ran to embrace our pig. “This is Daisy,” Nancy announced. “And she’s staying with us.” I marvelled at her gumption. 

“Hey,” Peter said eloquently. “That must be the pig from the Shmendriks farm.”
“No it’s not,” I said ineloquently. 
“Yea it is,“ he said. ”The Shmendriks came knocking on everyones’ doors.” 
“No it’s not,” I persisted. 
“Howie,” mom said eloquently. “We have to give Daisy back. They own her.” 
“No they don’t,” I said inarticulately. I looked over at Nancy as if to say: ‘Can I get a little help over here?’ But she was wrapped up, both figuratively and literally, with Daisy. 
“They don’t even want her,” I blurted emphatically. “They wanna get rid of her in the worst possible way.”
Nancy was weeping then, probably because she knew it was all so very true. The Shmendriks didn’t love her but Daisy wasn’t ours. Neither of us could understand why she wasn’t ours since we were the ones that loved her. 

Nancy wrapped Daisy up all the more tightly in her arms. Daisy for her part had placed her snoot lovingly in Nancy’s lap. It was such a lovingly thing to do that even Mom and Peter had to acknowledge it. Nevertheless, be that as it may, once dad got home, with all sorts of attempts at whitewashing or minimizing the harsh reality of the occassion, he and Peter took Daisy away. They loaded her into the car and took our Daisy away. 

Nancy was inconsolable. I was angry. Nancy actually was inconsolable and angry both but neither of us would talk to mom. We went to bed upset and it was not a happy house that night.

Breakfast was a sombre affair to say the least. Nobody was talking. Nobody was looking at nobody, until there came a god-awful racket from out back. Nancy and I immediately bolted for the door while I only vaguely registered the fact that mom, dad nor Peter bolted along with us. The door to the tool shed was wide open and all manner of equipment was strewn around inside. Two types of rakes and a shovel lay half in the shed and half on the patio stones outside. And Daisy was walking around on the grass in the yard.

Nancy and I both hugged Daisy fiercely who sorta hugged us back. The others had taken their own sweet time to come out and I looked up at dad questioningly. He shrugged as if at a loss to explain Daisy’s reappearance. “It musta been the Shmowie,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the Prantsy”, added mom. “Hey, what about the Shmeter? It musta been the Shmeter too,” insisted Peter.