Thursday, December the 30th, 2004

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Me and My Thorn-hog

I was given a common thorn-hog as a Christmas present. It is a wild pig, long-bodied and flat-sided, in colour much the hue of the mud in which it wallows, that mud being my front garden mud, which is somewhat darker than my back garden mud. The mud along the side of the house is another shade again, but Carnforth—that is the pig's name—seems to prefer the front garden, or at least the mud in the front garden.

I did not name her Carnforth. The benefactor who brought her to me at crack of dawn on Christmas morning told me she had been named before birth, like most thorn-hogs. The common practice, I was informed, is for these wild pigs to be called after iconic railway stations, and Carnforth is, of course, where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard filmed Brief Encounter.

In addition to telling me my new pig's name, my benefactor gave me a little booklet titled So You've Been Given A Wild Pig?, which is packed with useful information on how to care for it, or I should say, her. Not that Carnforth needs much care. She spends most of her time wallowing in the mud in my front garden, and twice a day I unlock the gate to let her out so she can go rampaging about the hills, grunting furiously and waylaying anything edible. She is, after all, a wild pig.

As she is fond of thorns, I took Carnforth to the garden centre when it opened for its Boxing Day sale, and we had a lovely time looking at the rosebushes. I think I can tell from her prolonged and noisy grunts that she would like to go back there when they have restocked.

I have not yet allowed my thorn-hog into the house, as I am in the middle of redecorating. Sometimes in the middle of the night I can hear her thumping violently against the door trying to get in, but I want to finish her indoor sty first. Transforming the entire downstairs is going to be quite a job, but it will be such a nice surprise for her. The price of straw is high at the moment, so I may have to wait for the market to settle. Meanwhile, I am keeping an eagle eye on both hay and straw futures, and counting up all the loose change in my jars.

I would write a thank you letter to my benefactor for such a delightful gift, but he did not leave a forwarding address. Indeed, after delivering the wild pig, he scampered away at high speed, shouting “Merry Christmas!” as if in the throes of a hysterical fit. And do you know something? I had never set eyes on him before.