Wee, Wee, Wee, Woe is Me.....(The conclusion and beginning)

I had stated my case. I had fought the good fight early on and had been supported by good folks who sided with me in my plight.


Namely, my buddy Major James "Jaydawg" McNair.

He said that in order for me to secure victory in this debate that I ”should bring home charcoal, lighter fluid, and some (insert favorite brand name here) bbq sauce and have it on the kitchen counter when she gets there..... And while you are at it, cut her off this weekend. After all YOU have half the money and.........."ALL pigs, regardless of size or color were place here by the very Jesus she tried to guilt you with for ONE reason.....consumption. Mans only got one BFF-- AKA D O G. Besides, pig poop stinks. You stand tall, warrior."

Words to live by. I lived by them until I got home......

And so it came to pass, that while we awaited word about the possible acquisition of Wilbur the pig, one of my Facebook friends posted a notice (and a photo) of a teeny tiny baby pot bellied pig that a farmer in Milledgeville had for sale (amongst an entire litter of baby pigs).

"What say ye", Sayeth Sue? "When Pigs fly", says I.

I had mentioned to Wifey that perhaps if she considered two other animals in the equation ( brownchickenbrowncow) I might be easier to persuade.

What she said can't be restated.

The family had already gone crazy about the pig--any pig--Amanda sent word "I want the pig", Lyndsay said "Has Mom picked the pig up yet?" and Joe weighing in from College telling his Mom "Don't mess the pig thing up, Mom".....not to mention 80% of Howard High Schools Sophomore class, of which Lyndsay is a member...(see the first installment for where I rate in all of this).

Sunday morning. We drive to the farm over in Milledgeville and purchase a baby pot bellied piglet of a pig. We stopped back at Wal-Mart and bought a baby blanket and baby bottle so we can feed the new pig milk until she is able to eat regular pig food.

Her name is ....."Begonia".

Good grief. One more female in my house.

Spanky, my male dog, and I are presently in the Man cave.

His look says it all.

Wee, Wee, Wee, all the way HOME?

SHE: We shall call him ---- WILBUR


ME:I got news for you..We shall call him SUPPER if you think we are getting a dang pig..


SHE: Him needs a home.

We have lots o land.

He is adorable. I want him

I always get what I want.


ME: NO! (as if...)

And I mean it like I ain't ever meant NO before.



SHE: NO means yes... isn't that what you always say?



ME: That only applies to Sex.

Not for pigs.

knucklehead---I'm mad with you--you have lost your mind- have you changed your tobacco habit for cannabis?


SHE: Why would you be mad at me?

How would a little miniature pig be a detriment to your life?



ME: Not less than 2 weeks ago both you and the Booger (Amanda) were about to have a s**t hemorrhage about Pottamus keeping the turtle, yet you turn around and somehow between bong tokes you have had your compassionate heart melted by a pig that needs adopting?

Do you not know what pigs would do to your yard?

Do you not understand we aren't ABOUT to have livestock or anything else that requires a "pen" out at our house?

Do you not understand that you have three worthless dogs already, 2 of whom aren't housebroken?

Do you NOT understand that pork is the OTHER white meat?


No, ma'am, a little pig, in and of itself, would not be a detriment to my life. However, a wife, evidently one who has started smoking crack, would be. She would also have hell to pay if she brought a young piglet to Beaver Oaks. Step away from the crack pipe, Ma'am.

SHE:

1. I didn't say anything about the turtle other than keeping a 9" turtle in an aquarium 1 foot by 3 foot was borderline abuse.

2. It’s not pigs it is WILBUR. And what it would do to what yard? I ain't putting him in the front yard. He will have a pen. He can tear up everything he wants in his pen. (JUST THINK... THAT MUCH LESS YOU HAVE TO CUT.)

3. It’s not LIVESTOCK. It’s Fisherstock and his name is WILBUR. Would you turn away Jesus if he came to you looking for a place to stay?

4. A pen, that YOU will build with your own hands from your heart.

5. The other white meat?? Did you not see the picture? he is of multi-ethnicity. Black and White. Ebony and Ivory. Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. It’s what America is founded on.


You are delusional. I am not smoking crack. I want to spread love. You know like Sarah McLachlan sings about.


ME: Go get one of your urinalysis kits and test yourself for being positive for whatever the h--- it is you are smoking.You are delusional, impractical, fanatical, maniacal, and at this point, must have peed your pants; because if you think for one solitary nanosecond that we are adopting a swine pork pig, aka " Sus scrofa domesticus" then you are mistaken, aka "fullimus excrementus"...............


SHE: Whatever. Again, I didn't ask permission.

There is nothing wrong with having a pet pig.

And Pootie would LOVE it!


ME: There you go invoking the "P" word...

Pigs have been known to attack people. (this fact from being attacked myself Memorial day weekend, 2000)


SHE: They attack people who look at them like barbecue.

WILBUR is sweet. He just hangs out. Eats dog food.

I don't need your permission.



ME: No, and there's a lot of other things you don't need… (in one final act of defiance)

Bring that d--- pig home and you're going to find out what those are too.


WHAT WILL HAPPEN…….WILL LA CASA de PESCADOR become CASA de VIVR CERDOS, or WORSE? Will George stock up on Charcoal  and barbeque sauce on the way home from work?

Stay tuned for tomorrows exciting installment….

As it happens, we were in the Man cave watching the movie Batman and Robin when I heard Wifey sniffing. She was crying.

“Is the movie that bad? I inquired.

“Joe”, was her only reply.

Joe, aka Man’s Best Friend, our Son, loved Batman and Robin. For every Halloween I can remember he was either Batman or Robin. Every towel in our house had a Safety pin in it for his cape…

Joe heads off for College tomorrow. It’s hard enough on me as it is but now that my “tough as nails” Wifey has turned into a basket case I have no option but to “Man up” about the whole thing. She has certainly earned the privilege to be a basket case just by being married to me, but especially at this particular junction.

This is, after all, her Joe.

“Joey”, as she calls him. She is the only one on the planet that calls him Joey. Her Joey.

Of course he has been my source of male companionship for quite some time. As a bonus, he’s the only other male member of our house that is housebroken.

Yes, here we are, like so many of our kind, about to kick another one from the nest.

For Joe—well, it was just the other day he was waiting for me in the yard (with glove, bat and ball) to arrive from work so we could play ball. And, too, he just got the tubes in his ears from all those ear infections he has had—he has been coughing and had the “snots” since Thanksgiving, for crying out loud. No doubt having picked it up from some other kid at Kindergarten…..wait---was that really that long ago? Tempis fugit, as they say in Latin. That means “time flies”. We have the same saying here in Georgia-“just damn”---roughly translated it means “Lordhavemercywhereinheavensnamedidthetimego?”

Lets see, now….there is Joe the infant, his Mom the only soul who could soothe his lactose intolerant self. Then Joe the infant, part 2, who liked to throw up on his Dads shirts. There’s Joe the infant, part 3, whose first words were “Ball”. There’s Joe the medical patient, taking his Tony the Tiger baseball into the operating room to get those ear tubes. Joe the kid whose Christmas was made perfect from the cowboy boots. Joe the Batman, Joe the Robin, Joe the regular Joe. But always Joey to his Mom. Joe the worldly old man, sitting in the barber chair getting his first haircut and acting like he had done it his entire life. Joe the Hunter, who first came running thru the door with two freshly assassinated squirrels and a few years later a deer. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll provide”, he said. Joe the Fisherman, who spent most of his fishing time with Dad fixing the “birds nest” from those infernal bass reels. And forever Joe the ball player, my personal favorite since 1996.

Joe the middle schooler, Joe the Guitar player, and Dapper Joe in his Prom Tux.

The one I recall the most is “GI Joe”, the little boy who ran back down the escalator to tell his Soldier Dad bye one last time before he left for war. I waited at the escalator, only to grab him up and put him back in the arms of his Momma. I promised I would never make my boy or myself cry like that again.

It’s August, 2011. There’s another Joe about to bloom. Joe the College kid. Good luck, buddy.

I will be waiting for you at the escalator.

Love,

Dad