Husband Walter and I were enjoying an afternoon stroll in Elkmont Campground. The campground is one of our regular and enjoyable destinations on summer trips to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Our sons and their families plus Hubby’s brother, sister-in-law and their grandson were due to arrive the next day. The addition of seven youngsters ages three to nine would definitely change the pace of our quiet, leisurely activities, and I was looking forward to the excitement they experience in the mountains.
I was startled from those thoughts by a high-pitched squeal. I stopped. Even intent listening takes concentration for some of us stroke survivors, and listening and walking at the same time was beyond my non-existent multi-tasking capabilities.
I stood still and gave undivided attention to listening. There it was again. I wasn’t imagining things.
“That sounded like a pig,” I said. Walter concurred. We peered through campsites. No pigs and no clues appeared.
Four days later I spied a lady carrying what appeared to be a tiny pig. I had met her several days earlier at the restrooms.
She introduced her new pet as a micro-mini pig. She and her husband had picked the diminutive pig up on their way to the mountains.
This little piggy went camping.
“What were we thinking?” she said. “It had not been weaned, and it cried a lot.”
But the tiny porker didn’t seem unhappy now. Once on the ground with a leash attached to its little halter, it trotted around on tiny little hooves with a bossy, take-charge air. I could imagine it saying, “I know where I’m going. If you want to come along, then keep up.”
I asked the new owner the micro-mini’s name. “Micky,” she said.
“With an ‘I’ or a ‘y?’” Once you’ve worked on the news side of a newspaper, nailing the correct spelling of names is an obsession.
She said she had been toying with the two versions but hadn’t yet made a decision.
“Well, is your pig a boy or a girl?”
I could feel the weakening of my resolution to stop jumping in with unsolicited advice. Besides, I had already been thinking of Micky as a male critter.
“Oh, it has to be a ‘y’ then,” I advised. “Think what a handicap it would be around all the other guys if his name ends in a girly ‘i.’ He would be so embarrassed.”
Guys grandson Nate, left, and great-nephew Ashton meet Micky.
I am not sure which way she went with the name thing. But regardless, I suspect she will realize that the guys now outnumber her. She is the lone gal in her household . . .and in her campsite.
I was left with the urge to adopt my own micro-mini. But no, that is not going to happen.