We have had a lot of livestock in our house at different times over the years. Goats most often, sick, giving birth, or babies. Last year ED raised a bummer lamb in the house, and Bernard found an abandoned chick in the barn who lived in the house with us last winter. We’ve even had an ailing foal in the kitchen.

But lately, as many of you know, we’ve had a pig sharing our domicile. A heroic pig, but a pig nonetheless. He’s been one of the cleanest animals in some ways—we warmed him in a sink of warm water the day of his Great Trauma, and dried him with towels, so he wasn’t muddy or dirty, and he came from a lovely healthy herd that isn’t fed grain, so even when dirty he’s not at all smelly. He’s also figuring out a litter box arrangement pretty quickly. Really, sheep and goats are WAY more disgusting in the house, though Beowulf does have a few issues with table manners, made evident by the peanut butter noseprints on the kitchen floor.

However. Yesterday we let him go in the pasture to get to know the other pigs, and he quickly reverted to a wild animal. When we finally caught him again yesterday evening, and carried him, screaming like a bean sídhe into the house, he was unbelievably filthy from the slurry our pasture has been churned into this wet, wet winter. And that’s when we released him into the bathroom, thinking there was nothing he could get into in there. Good plan.

He pulled towels off the shelf and made himself a bed. He climbed in the bathtub since we had so thoughtlessly forgotten to give him his litterbox, and for some reason he worked my crossword puzzle dictionary over pretty hard. He was only in there for a few minutes before the girls gave him another bath, but it was long enough to make us decide he was ready for the pasture and the other pigs full time. So tonight’s the night—I just hope Dixie and Bill share the shelter with the poor little guy.