The New Adventures Of Wilbur the Pig Chapter 17 "Return Of the Party Animal"

We were all very happy to get Wilbur home with no problems from the police, or Animal Services; once again we had dodged a potential bullet because of Wilbur’s antics. Wilbur always took everything in stride, but he was turning Rhea, and I into nervous wrecks. If there was something Wilbur could get into, he would somehow find a way to get into it.

You might wonder how something as big as a 300 pound pig could keep escaping our notice to get into the trouble that he did. I can only tell you that Wilbur was very smart, and that he was persistent; he also knew when to pick his spot. Wilbur also had this nonchalant way of ambling around the house, to see him you would never guess that he was up to something. He would also wait until you were busy or occupied with something, and then make his move. All in all, Wilbur was one crafty pig.

The pet line up in our household had gone through some changes in the next year. My old dog Dylan had passed away from old age, and Bruno had contracted a mysterious urinary tact disease and had to be put to sleep. After Bruno’s passing Rhea went into a deep depression, and I knew the only way to bring her out of it was to get her a new Rottweiler. I went back to the Miami-Dade adoption center, but to my dismay found that there were no Rottweiler’s available. I went back again about a week later only to find there was still no Rottweiler’s; but there was a dog who had been there a week before. He looked like a skinny rot, but was probably half Doberman. He was scarred from a lifetime of living on the street, and he looked pretty beaten up. Unlike the other dogs there, he was very quiet, but friendly when I talked to him. I could see on his card that he had been in custody for almost three weeks; that meant if he wasn’t adopted real soon he would be put to sleep. I adopted him, and named him Bobby. I was correct in my assumption that they were anxious to get rid of him, because they rushed the paper work and had him leave with me that day.

I brought Bobby home and tried to pass him off as a Rottweiler to Rhea, but she would have nothing to do with poor Bobby. Bobby became my dog. Within two months Bobby had healed up, and fattened up to the point that you would not have recognized him as the dog I brought home. Bobby became my “body guard” because he would always sit next to me on the patio, and make that sure nobody threatened me. This would lead to many spats between him and Wilbur. These spats kept up until Bobby learned that Wilbur wasn’t out to harm me, just to get petted, and loved.

A couple of months later I made one more trip to the adoption center, and got lucky. When I didn’t find any Rottweiler’s in the main section, I “wandered” into the off limits section. There I saw the handlers bringing in a new dog that was a Rottweiler! After I had apologized to the handler for being where I shouldn’t be I asked him about the new dog. “He is a male, very young, and very friendly, and he needs a new home.” My prayers had been answered! I adopted him, and a week later I brought him home. Rhea was ecstatic! She decided to name him Simon, which had been her father’s middle name.

Simon was basically a puppy, but a large puppy. Like Bruno, and Bobby, he was very skinny when I brought him home; but he soon got fatter, and grew even larger. Simon was the big dog, and he knew it! He constantly used his size to push around the other dogs when suppertime came. He was also big enough that he was not afraid of Wilbur. Wilbur is a lover, not a fighter, but he knew enough not to back down to this young upstart bully. We had many fights out on the back patio with Wilbur, and Simon, going at it like two huge sumo wrestlers; pushing patio table and chairs around, and me screaming at the top of my lungs “Stop it! Both of you go lie down!” They eventually did get used to each other, though like brothers they still will brawl from time to time.

September of that year was the occasion of my fiftieth birthday. Rhea decided to throw me a big party on our large back patio. We had friends and family come, and we had Wilbur, and the dogs. We had music, fire works, party hats, beer, and food. Wilbur, Bobby, Simon, and Princess, all wore party hats, and helped daddy celebrate turning fifty. Wilbur the party animal was in his glory, drinking beer, and wandering around getting food from the other partiers. Wilbur, I, and the others, partied late into the evening until Wilbur had had enough, then he just walked through the house to his bedroom, where he passed out until late the next morning.

When he got up the next day I think he was a little hung over, because he was even more grumpy than usual. I said to him, “Don’t be crabby with me! If you can’t handle your beer, don’t drink it!” Good words to live by, even if you are a pig.

All in all, it was a birthday party I never will forget.

The True Adventures Of Wilbur the Pig Chapter 7 "The Party Animal"

Wilbur quickly learned that he was living high on the hog in our house. Every morning he would get his favorites for breakfast; a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and a banana. Then through out the day he would get many slices of bread, and anything else we happened to be dining on that day. Wilbur would eat almost anything he was offered. The only things he would refuse would be sour or bitter things, such as dill pickles. Wilbur loved apples, salad, and even meat. He would even devour pork (he loves pork) when it was given to him. We all thought it ironic, that Wilbur was being a cannibal, and that he never knew it or cared.

We never really thought about the nutritional needs, or the best diet for a pot belly pig. Wilbur was happy, and that was all that mattered. Within two weeks we had to put both Tony, and Bluedoe to sleep, so you would think that our family was starting to shrink. Well the number of our family did shrink, but not the size, because Wilbur was growing…quickly. By the end of October, Wilbur had doubled in size.

At this time I received the notice that my employer (a major airline) of almost twenty years was closing in Rochester, and replacing us with their low cost spin off airline. I had the choice to stay in Rochester and work for them, or to exercise my seniority and to bump into another station. To stay in Rochester, I would have had to take a ten dollar an hour cut in pay, and forfeit all of my health benefits. Since I had twenty years invested with this airline, and could not find a job that would pay as well, Rhea, and I decided we had to move. Since I went to the University of Miami back in the seventies, and adored the warm sunny weather; Rhea and I chose to transfer to Miami, Florida.

We only had three months to get our affairs in order before the station closed. Those three months were a whirl wind of activity as we had to fly down to Miami to find a new house, and to put our present house up for sale. There were many ups and downs, and things were very hectic. We found a nice house just north of Homestead that we loved, but the housing prices were much steeper than in Rochester. I found myself with just two months to raise 16,000 dollars for the closing in early February. Every available penny was getting socked away, and we never got around to get Wilbur fixed. If I knew what we were in store for, I would have begged someone for twenty five dollars.

We had a very nice real-estate lady trying to sell our house. She thought it would be best if we were not at home, and that we took the dogs with us when she showed the house to prospective buyers. That was not a real problem; the problem was what to do with Wilbur? We couldn’t exactly take Wilbur with us for fear that he would get scared and run away, so we decided to put him in the back yard when we left. It was late November by this time, and already getting mighty cold outside, but what were we to do?

On the day of the big showing we packed up Toby, and Dylan, and drove down to the boat launch to let them run around while the house was being shown. In the back sun room, we had a pair of sliding doors that led to the patio, and the pool. The real-estate lady, wanting to show off all the amenities of our house took the prospective buyers to the sun room to show them the back patio, and pool. Imagine their surprise when the real-estate lady threw back the curtains to the sliding doors to discover a very cold pig standing at the top of the steps waiting to be let in! I guess we should have told her about the pig; either way the house eventually got sold.

With just a month before the big move, we decided to have a big “New Year Eve-so long” bash at our house. We decided to have the party in our basement, as that was the only room big enough to accommodate everyone. We decided that this would also be Wilbur’s big coming out party for all of our friends and relatives who had not yet met him. Since Wilbur’s hooves were not designed to go up and down a whole flight of stairs, I had to carry him down. Wilbur weighed about forty pounds at this time, not too heavy for me to lift; and fortunately he gave me only a minimal amount of squirming.

What a bash it was! Everyone was drinking, eating and having a good time; especially Wilbur. Everyone loved to feed Wilbur! Wilbur was in hog heaven as he dined on nachos, pizza, chips, pretzels, and beer. We put a party hat on Wilbur, and he looked very festive going up to all the partiers looking for, and getting hand outs. This pig was definitely a daddy’s boy because he loved beer! He looked like Caesar at a Roman orgy as he made his way around the party feasting and drinking. Eventually the beer got to him, and he started to teeter as he walked among the guests. After a couple of hours of partying Wilbur managed to stagger to a corner of the basement where he collapsed and slept the rest of the night. The next day I went down to bring him back up stairs. Wilbur was so hung over that he did not put up any fight when I picked him up. Oh well, that’s what you get if you want to be a party pig.

Next episode: Road Hog!

Wilbur and Us Chapter 16..."Return of the Party Animal"

We were all very happy to get Wilbur home with no problems from the police, or Animal Services; once again we had dodged a potential bullet because of Wilbur’s antics. Wilbur always took everything in stride, but he was turning Rhea, and I into nervous wrecks. If there was something Wilbur could get into, he would somehow find a way to get into it.

You might wonder how something as big as a 300 pound pig could keep escaping our notice to get into the trouble that he did. I can only tell you that Wilbur was very smart, and that he was persistent; he also knew when to pick his spot. Wilbur also had this nonchalant way of ambling around the house, to see him you would never guess that he was up to something. He would also wait until you were busy or occupied with something, and then make his move. All in all, Wilbur was one crafty pig.

The pet line up in our household had gone through some changes in the next year. My old dog Dylan had passed away from old age, and Bruno had contracted a mysterious urinary tact disease and had to be put to sleep. After Bruno’s passing Rhea went into a deep depression, and I knew the only way to bring her out of it was to get her a new Rottweiler. I went back to the Miami-Dade adoption center, but to my dismay found that there were no Rottweiler’s available. I went back again about a week later only to find there was still no Rottweiler’s; but there was a dog who had been there a week before. He looked like a skinny rot, but was probably half Doberman. He was scarred from a lifetime of living on the street, and he looked pretty beaten up. Unlike the other dogs there, he was very quiet, but friendly when I talked to him. I could see on his card that he had been in custody for almost three weeks; that meant if he wasn’t adopted real soon he would be put to sleep. I adopted him, and named him Bobby. I was correct in my assumption that they were anxious to get rid of him, because they rushed the paper work and had him leave with me that day.

I brought Bobby home and tried to pass him off as a Rottweiler to Rhea, but she would have nothing to do with poor Bobby. Bobby became my dog. Within two months Bobby had healed up, and fattened up to the point that you would not have recognized him as the dog I brought home. Bobby became my “body guard” because he would always sit next to me on the patio, and make that sure nobody threatened me. This would lead to many spats between him and Wilbur. These spats kept up until Bobby learned that Wilbur wasn’t out to harm me, just to get petted, and loved.

A couple of months later I made one more trip to the adoption center, and got lucky. When I didn’t find any Rottweiler’s in the main section, I “wandered” into the off limits section. There I saw the handlers bringing in a new dog that was a Rottweiler! After I had apologized to the handler for being where I shouldn’t be I asked him about the new dog. “He is a male, very young, and very friendly, and he needs a new home.” My prayers had been answered! I adopted him, and a week later I brought him home. Rhea was ecstatic! She decided to name him Simon, which had been her father’s middle name.

Simon was basically a puppy, but a large puppy. Like Bruno, and Bobby, he was very skinny when I brought him home; but he soon got fatter, and grew even larger. Simon was the big dog, and he knew it! He constantly used his size to push around the other dogs when suppertime came. He was also big enough that he was not afraid of Wilbur. Wilbur is a lover, not a fighter, but he knew enough not to back down to this young upstart bully. We had many fights out on the back patio with Wilbur, and Simon, going at it like two huge sumo wrestlers; pushing patio table and chairs around, and me screaming at the top of my lungs “Stop it! Both of you go lie down!” They eventually did get used to each other, though like brothers they still will brawl from time to time.

September of that year was the occasion of my fiftieth birthday. Rhea decided to throw me a big party on our large back patio. We had friends and family come, and we had Wilbur, and the dogs. We had music, fire works, party hats, beer, and food. Wilbur, Bobby, Simon, and Princess, all wore party hats, and helped daddy celebrate turning fifty. Wilbur the party animal was in his glory, drinking beer, and wandering around getting food from the other partiers. Wilbur, I, and the others, partied late into the evening until Wilbur had had enough, then he just walked through the house to his bedroom, where he passed out until late the next morning.

When he got up the next day I think he was a little hung over, because he was even more grumpy than usual. I said to him, “Don’t be crabby with me! If you can’t handle your beer, don’t drink it!” Good words to live by, even if you are a pig.

All in all, it was a birthday party I never will forget.

Wilbur and Us Chapter 14..."The Pig Whisperer"

Now we had a green pig, but that was not all that had turned green. Besides Jeff’s carpet, the fronts of two dressers, and a door that Wilbur had rubbed against, were now permanently green.

Wilbur had turned into a Denis the Menace with hooves. He was always getting into trouble, and he was always getting yelled at or spanked for something. They say that cats are curious creatures, but they are nothing compared to an over grown, spoiled rotten, teenage pig. We had to “Wilbur-proof” our entire house by putting brass plates on the bottom of the patio doors, putting latches on cupboard, closet, laundry, and bed room doors; any place we wanted to try to keep Wilbur out of. Considering that this was the pig that wanted nothing to do with us his first week, we now could not get away from him! He was always under foot or getting into something he shouldn’t be. But just like that teenage kid you have that you want to hug, and strangle at the same time, we loved Wilbur, and we knew he loved us.

As much as we all loved Wilbur, we were also getting very tired of yelling at him all of the time. I didn’t know it, but Wilbur was also tired of getting yelled at all the time.

One evening after I got home from work, I was sitting on the back patio watching my favorite shows on TIVO, enjoying a cold beer, smoking a cigar, and sipping on a shot of bourbon. The dogs were inside eating their supper, so Wilbur was on the patio with me with the doors shut tight. Wilbur wanted to get inside to help the dogs finish off their suppers, so he was trying to pry the doors open with his big bottom teeth. After yelling at him about five times to leave the doors alone, and to go lie down, I had had enough. He had started trying to open the doors one more time when I stood up and screamed at him “Wilbur you are not going in the house! Go lie down before I wail the shit out of you!” Instead of running away Wilbur spun around and faced me defiantly. This was it! Father and teenage son squared off in a battle of wills. I was staring at him ready to either attack or defend myself, when I received a telepathic message in my head. “Why are you so mean to me? And why are you always yelling at me?” I immediately relaxed and said out loud in a calm but firm voice to him. “I yell at you because you do not listen to me. You have to understand that I am the boss, and what I say goes. If you will do as I say, I agree not to yell at you any more. Now go lie down and be a good pig.” Wilbur turned and walked to the other side of the patio and laid down.

Now I know that there are plenty of you out there asking yourself, “Just how many beers, and shots did you have Mike?” and to be truthful it was probably a couple of each; but the experience was real to me, and real to Wilbur, because I have not had to yell at him to get him to obey since. Rhea was very skeptical when I told her the story, but she could not account for the fact that Wilbur would listen, and obey me without having to be yelled at.

The next summer on a very hot and humid day, (as they all are here in South Florida) I came out on the patio after work. Wilbur was looking into the house through the door windows. I could see he was agitated and wanted to go inside so I asked him “What’s the matter Wilbur?” He told me in no uncertain terms that he was upset that the dogs got to stay inside the cool air-conditioned house, while he had to stay outside in the heat. I said to him, “Mommy wants you outside because she is afraid you will sneak off and hump the furniture. If you promise to leave the furniture alone, I will let you inside, but if I catch you humping the furniture, I will kick you outside, and you will spend the rest of the night outside.” Wilbur agreed. As I opened the door to let him in, Rhea said, “What are you doing? I want him outside away from the furniture!” I told her that Wilbur was jealous that the dogs get to stay inside in the cool, and that he wasn’t. I also told her that Wilbur promised to leave the furniture alone. She begrudging let him in. Wilbur walked over to an open area of the rug and laid down. He kept his word not to mess with the furniture the rest of that summer.

Now Wilbur does not always communicate with me telepathically; he normally will just grunt his displeasure if I make him do something he doesn’t want to do, just like any kid would; and I think that is cute. He is a little grumpy in the morning when he first wakes up, like most people, and he doesn’t like to be prodded outside to go to the bathroom. He is also a little grumpy when he is tired and wants to go to bed. He often reminds both Rhea, and me of my son Mitchell, who is a bit of a grouch. We think they are both cute.

On The Bright Side Of the Road

It’s finally here! I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Is it my anniversary? No. Is it my birthday? No. Is it the anniversary of my first divorce? Close, but no. Tomorrow is the N.F.L. draft. This is like Christmas in April every year for me, and other deranged draftniks.

Believe it or not I have been preparing for tomorrow since late December. After the NFL Super Bowl ended, I have been concentrating even more on the draft.

Why do I do this? I don’t know. But my wife learned very early in our relationship not to bother me on draft weekend. She has conveniently scheduled herself to work this week end. Good girl!

I can’t help it. You see there has been NO football since the Super bowl, and I need a fix on football so bad it would make Amy Winehouse blush.

I have bought three or four of the top draft publications, and I have been watching “Path to the Draft” on the NFL Network every night (sometimes twice!) to prepare for the draft. This last week I have doubled my draft watching, as I prepare for this weekend.

At this point you might be asking yourself “Is he a football personnel guy?” No. “Is he a team General Manager?” No. I simply need to get myself ready to help my team (The Oakland Raiders) put together a good draft. It’s not like they are going to call me and consult me on which player they should take; but I wish they would, because I would have the answer for them. Instead I am just going to sit in front of my TV for two days, drink beer, and wear my Raider’s hat proudly as I watch my team pick the guys who are going to take us to the Super Bowl this year. (Right!) This year I’m walking the path to the draft, and the Raider’s are on the bright side of that road.

I do know that I am a geek, and that most of you folks think I am a few bricks short of a full load. You are right. I just want to tell you that I am not alone. NFL Draft day is the highest rated day of the year for ESPN, and every year it gets bigger. If it keeps getting bigger each year, it won’t be long before we will have NFL games fifty two weeks of the year.

My wife will NOT be happy.

Pop! What a Happy Sound

It's Friday...TGIF and all.

Throughout this great country of ours, one sound reverberates around it: POP! That's the sound of a beer bottle or can being opened. Let's face it -- we Americans like to drink. Come to think of it , so does everybody else! Let's see, I know the Irish do, the Germans, the Russians, the Brits, et al. Drinking is the one universal thing we can all agree on (unless you are a real devout person). We like to do it. I've already freely admitted to you that I do. Hell, I took up running 18 years ago (but now I shuffle) just so I could drink the beer I wanted without weighing 300 lbs.

Why is alcohol so popular? Well, for one thing, it tastes great. Nothing like a good cold one after work, after mowing the lawn, after sex, after the last one...There's nothing like a good cold one after your last beer. That is the problem. Beer-liking is accumulative. After a while, any excuse is a good excuse to have a beer.

So God, in his infinite wisdom, gave us a reason to not drink...work. Let's face it, if we were all rich and affluent, and didn't have to work, we would all be drunk all the time! Since God invented work, most of us have to be semi-moderate about our consumption during the work week. The people who haven't learned to be moderate are the ones we walk around on the sidewalks on the way to work. Liking something is one thing; being controlled by it is another.

The problem with all drugs is the temptation to do them exclusively -- and to hell with everything else. Not real good if you have a wife and kids counting on you. When I was a teenager, my Dad told me (over a hangover), "If you can't handle your booze, don't drink it!" Good words to live by.

Yes, it's Friday; you probably had a killer of a week. Have fun, but know when to say when.

(Wow, that was one difficult post... Now where did I leave that bottle opener?)
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