WHEN PIGS FLY

When I had cooled down enough, I swam to the river shore and walked back towards the picnic table, where I found Peter Raspberry eating my socks. It had never occurred to me that such an animal would become a member of the family, but he never leaves our side.

The miniature pig has been the light of my daughter's life since he stumbled onto our cabbage farm some four years ago. Diane was only six when she found him eating moldy raspberries out of the bins behind the shed. I’ve never been thrilled with the arrangement, but I didn’t have the heart to deny her. She had just lost her mother after all, and was far too young to understand why. So, thus began Peter Raspberry, and his many adventures with a shy little girl and her bereaved father.

By adventures of course, I mean primarily his destructive enterprise – while the pig remains next to Diane wherever she might go, he’s achieved very little beyond an insatiable rampage against anything that he thinks could be hypothetically edible. Evidently, my socks were no exception.

I only ceased scolding the little grunting thing when Diane came scampering down the ladder of the campsite treehouse, pleading with me to forgive her friend for the third time today. I wasn’t as mad as I pretended to be. The socks could be washed, and four years is enough time to get used to anything.

“I just wish he was better trained,” I remarked, shaking my head disapprovingly. “Pigs are not stupid animals.”

Diane folded her arms. “He is trained, Pop! He’s just bored! We’ve been here for three days!”

I smiled as I got the feeling she wasn’t talking about Peter Raspberry, but I said nothing, as our campsite had been booked for seven days, and I had no intention of cutting the trip short. Instead, I ruffled my daughter's hair and asked her what she wanted to do.

“I want to go on the zipline!”

I sighed. “We’ve been over this. There are two handles and one safety clip. If you want to go on the zipline, Peter Raspberry can’t be with you, and neither can I. You will have to do it alone.”

Her face fell into an anxious pout. I could tell she was frightened of the zipline, but equally curious. For about as long as she could remember, she’s had her pet tucked under her arm for every new experience and frightening moment. Once again, sentiment got the better of me. I looked towards the modest zipline, suspended at about 15 feet in the air, and scanned the rest of the campsite – surely, I could find a clever solution.

Some forty-five minutes later, as the sun was beginning its descent, I watched my highly obnoxious pet pig soar between the trees, time and time again, perched inside an empty backpack and suspended by well-secured camping rope to each handle of the zipline’s trolley system. My evening ended with the impossible. Sometimes pigs really do fly.

Cael Davis was born and raised in central Florida. When he’s not writing, he can be found exploring nature or engaging in dialogue on sociopolitical or spiritual matters with people of similar interests.