Old Stink Eye

“That’s what I like about pigs.” Dad once told me.  “They look you right in the eye.”

He grew up somewhat poor in a Midwestern town no bigger than this and, at times, his father kept a few pigs around for slaughter.  Not only does dad like a pig’s personality, but he’s a very vocal pork lover and would probably be satisfied to eat any part of the pig that wouldn’t break more than two teeth.

I took a trip to Mt. Rushmore last year.  While wandering around Rapid City, we came upon a large gift shop full of western-style gifts.  I’m a real whore for handmade jewelry and I was admiring some earrings in the glass case when I realized I was being watched.  Upon the counter was a clay three-legged pig (pictured).  I immediately thought of dad and examined the creature.  With him was a small piece of yellow paper with the following words:

Good Luck Pigs

What’s wrong with these pigs?  You got it: They only have three legs.  But that’s a good thing.  The three-legged pigs bring good luck to those who possess them, according to the legend in South America.  People in the pueblo of Pomaire, Chile, famous for its pottery, have been giving three-legged pigs as good luck charms for longer than anyone can remember.  This pig from Chile or neighboring Peru drives away evil spirits and attracts good fortune.  Get yourself a pig or give one to a friend.  Good luck!

The holidays were coming up and I was sick of filling dad’s enormous library with more books, so I decided to add the pig to the mix.

Let’s get one thing straight.  I do not believe in luck.  I think luck is a figment of a poor-decision-maker’s excuse for his foolishness.  But, I also toss the spilled salt over my shoulder, as my father’s mother did.  Just in case I’m wrong.  (Which almost never happens.)  Getting the pig for dad was not about the luck, but about the pig.

But there was one small problem.  I couldn’t bear to part with the pig.  I mean, look how cute it is!  So, I thought, no harm done.  I’ll keep the pig for a little while and see how things go.  Maybe I’ll give it to dad next year.

Within a few months of acquiring the pig, things were looking up.  My romantic life improved significantly.  My business exploded in the direction I’d been trying to drive it for some time.  The tumors smothering my dog turned out to be benign.  I did not attribute any of my good fortune to the pig, but instead to my own persistence.  In fact, I didn’t even remember I had kept the pig until I moved recently.

My folks visited a little while ago.  I had decided to give dad the pig after all and brought it to him.  I explained its history and my original intent to give it to him over the holidays.  He giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl.  Like he couldn’t wait to put the little token in his far-too-cluttered office.

Mid-giggle, my dog’s ever-weaponic tail swung in ball-induced happiness and turned over a glass of wine that was resting peacefully on the coffee table, catapulting the impossible-to-get-out-of-fabric liquid onto the white carpet and freshly painted walls.

“Uh oh” said Dad.  “Maybe it’s the pig.  It knows you’re giving it away.  Are you sure you want me to have it?”

The next morning, over breakfast, my clumsiness knocked a glass of orange juice on the wood table, creating the kind of sticky goo that gives you sympathy for flypaper-trapped flies.

“See,” started Dad, “the problem is that the pig knows you’re not committed to it.  It thinks it’s going home with me. Maybe you should put it away.  You might even be able to fake it out and tell it you’re keeping it, but give it to me later.” 

For the rest of the weekend, every misfortune was blamed on the pig.  I’ve since put the creature in a very prominent position on the mantle.  I’m not prone to having, and especially not displaying, such knickknacks but it’s a cute pig and I’m not taking any chances.