The pig experience came to an exhilarating close last week, when my three youngest children finally showed and sold their pigs.

Back in the spring, we decided to raise pigs for 4-H. You may remember my recounting Spider Pig’s journey to the farm, in the back of my Subaru. It turns out, pigs don’t travel well in cars.

After a long summer of feeding, weighing, and worming pigs, fair week finally arrived.

I thought I knew a lot about pigs, up to that point, but fair week taught me how much I still don’t know.

It started with getting the pigs back to the fair grounds. When they were cute little 97-pound piglets, they could be easily hefted into the trailer, for transport to the farm.

By last week, the pigs were each pushing the 300 pound weight limit. Loading them onto the trailer was no easy task. When a 300-pound pig charges at a 97-pound girl, if she’s learned anything at all over the summer, she jumps out of the way.

My good-natured friend cheerfully herded the pigs toward the trailer, and the kids began closing in on the pigs, trying to coax them into the trailer. As one pig reluctantly climbed the ramp, another pig in the trailer saw his chance to escape. He bolted between legs, knocked down children and fled to the safety of the mud lake at the far edge of the pen. The pigs learned early on that no children would venture into the muddy morass. It was a refuge of cool water for the pigs whenever we came to weigh the pigs. Finally, after more pigs had escaped than were on the trailer, someone grabbed a few scraps of bread. The food tempted the pigs  back onto the trailer.

Once the pigs were at the fairgrounds, they had to be bathed and shaved. Once again, I found myself asking, “Who knew?”

 Someone seriously suggested we bathe the pigs in buttermilk, to soften their skin.

Pigs enjoy being bathed and shaved less than they enjoy being herded onto a trailer. After a lot of screaming, by children and pigs, the animals were clean and ready to be judged. By the time it was over, everyone was exhausted. And this was only day one.

Judgment day came on Tuesday. As I pulled into the parking lot, Gunnar bolted out to the Jeep.

“Mom! Come quick! Sissy is crying,” and with that, he ran off, expecting me to follow.

Upon entering the swine barn, I encountered a sobbing teenaged daughter, who had apparently tripped over her pig, Bill, and had chipped her tooth on the stock fence.

I wrapped my arms around Samantha and tried to soothe her crying. She was on deck to show her pig, and her agitation was clearly upsetting Bill.

I stroked her hair, “Calm down. Take a deep breath. You’re upsetting the pig.”

I chuckled as I heard myself say that. Upset the pig? It reminded me of an old saying, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. You waste your time and you upset the pig.” Although we were not trying to teach Bill to sing, he was growing more and more agitated with the chaos around him.

 Samantha showed me her tooth, broken neatly in half at a sharp angle. I stifled a surprised gasp. It was awful. I could see why she was crying so hard.

When the judges called her name, she took a deep breath, swallowed the remainder of her tears, and marched Bill down the walkway to the show ring.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as I watched my daughter put on a brave smile and lead her pig around the ring. What a great kid.

At the end of the day, Samantha and Bill placed third overall, out of a couple hundred pigs, and Samantha learned a valuable lesson about pulling your stuff together in the middle of a crisis and doing your best.

By the time Friday rolled around, the kids and the pigs were all sick of the fairgrounds. The air was electric with anticipation when the stock show began.

Chickens. Rabbits. Lambs. Steer. Pigs. Finally, the Demander kids headed into the sale ring, near the end of the auction. Having never participated before, we still had a few lessons to learn.

Apparently, the kids are supposed to present a gift to the buyers of their livestock. Who knew? Let me just say, to Wendell Fraughton, Don Pedro, and Alta Construction, “Your gifts are on their way. And thank-you.”

Without a lot of further ado, the pigs were sold. The kids were happy until Saturday, when they went to clean up the remnants of the project.

There, alone, stood Bill.

Samantha ran to her pig, wondering if he had been forgotten.

We headed to the fair office, and were reassured that Bill’s buyer would certainly be back, likely soon, to retrieve his pig.

As we headed out to the barn, Don Pedro pulled in to claim his pig.

Hating good-byes, Samantha left so she wouldn’t have to see Bill, loaded into one more trailer, for one more trip away from the fair grounds.

We laughed. We cried. We raised some pigs. When it was all said and done, there were some lessons that I’d like to pass on for all of you:

Never, ever, ever give a pig a ride in your car.

Pigs, like the rest of us, enjoy a kind word and a good snack.

Nothing beats a good back scratch.

You can always do your best, even when things around you are falling apart.

Namaste, friends.

Some life lessons linger like a foul odor in the air, a constant reminder of one wrong decision. On Saturday, my kids and I had the pleasure of selecting pigs for their 4-H program.

I am a city girl. Not really a city girl, so much as a town girl, but suffice it to say that the closest I have ever come to an actual, live pig is the cartoon version of Charlotte’s Web. I read that book as a youngster, and when I had young kids, I read it to them and we watched the movie. Pigs are cute, pink and cuddly. At least that was my impression until last Saturday.

I have heard that pigs are smarter than dogs. I don’t want to debate the relative intelligence of my dogs, but I don’t think they are the smartest pets I’ve ever owned. So I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the pigs turn out to be smarter than the dogs. But I digress.

Saturday morning, the kids and I arrived early, along with nearly 90 other eager 4-H participants. Some of the pigs lay in a heap, trying to keep warm after their long journey from Texas. Others rooted around in the hay, and some played. I thought they were playing, until someone pointed out that one little piggy was an aggressive jerk who was attacking the others.

My good friend told me to dress “appropriately”. Whatever that is supposed to mean. I had on cute Capri pants, sandals and a Uinta County sweatshirt. It was my pig-picking outfit. She looked at me with a snicker. “That’s what you wore?” She had on boots, long pants and several thick shirts. When the pig picking began, I understood that I was not dressed appropriately.

First, the kids climbed into the pen when their name was selected. Yuck. Muddy. If I climbed in there, my sandals would definitely get ruined. Then, once the child picked out his project pig, a parent would scoop the pig up and haul it away. I nearly jumped out of my skin, when the first pig was selected. The dad strode to the animal and lifted it from behind, carrying it firmly in front of him.

The pig did not let out a gentle oink, as I was expecting. It screamed. I am not exaggerating. The pig was screaming all the way to the trailer. I stood astonished, wondering if he had accidentally pinched it or something. Nope. The next pig, and the next one, and every one after that screamed. It was actually bloodcurdling. I have never heard a bloodcurdling scream until Saturday. And then I got to hear it 90 times.

One of my kids selected a pig that turned out not to be properly castrated.

“That boar will be mounting those other pigs soon,” a wise friend informed me (we were buying nine pigs as a group). “If it were younger, I could castrate it now, but you can’t show a boar at fair, so you’ll either need to call a vet or put the pig back and pick another one.”

Of course, my child had picked out the one pig that had escaped castration. Unfortunately, she had to wait until the very end, to select from the remaining pigs. The other eight in our group decided to take the trailer and head to the farm, while Lexi and I waited for the end of the sale. My friend offered to head back with the trailer, once the other pigs had been unloaded.

I told her I’d call if we needed her to come back. We waited around as every pig was selected except “Mr. Boar” and two other pigs. One was the largest pig in the arena. The other was a tiny pig with a sway back. Lexi hemmed and hawed, and finally decided on the larger one. My son hefted it up, and it let out the customary scream. My son stood holding the pig, looking at me quizzically.

“What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Oh. Right. I had forgotten to call my friend back.

Sudden inspiration struck. “Put it in the back of the Subaru,” I suggested. After all, it’s only a short drive from the fairgrounds to the farm. Less than five minutes. How much trouble can a pig be in five minutes?

I was about to find out. The pig did not like the car ride. One hundred and fifteen pounds of pig snorted in the back of the car. Fortunately, once my son released him, Spidey (as we affectionately named him) stopped squealing. He started grunting and rooting. And peeing and pooing. The kids in the back seat were screaming. “The pig is peeing. Oh gross. Now he’s pooping. Oh gross. Now he’s eating my braid.”

Chaos ensued as Spider Pig tried to climb over the seat, his hooves now covered in fresh pig poo. He nosed the girls on the back of the neck, trying to eat their hair. The kids screamed. The pig squealed. I drove like a maniac to minimize the damage.

Five minutes can seem like a very long time when you are hauling a leaking pig. It leaked everywhere.

Pigs can’t jump. Once we reached the farm, I backed up through the gate, into the pig pen and lifted the hatch. “Okay, Spider Pig, jump out.”

The pig just stood there. He did not jump out. I waited. Spider Pig waited. We had a stare down, while I tried to coax him out of the car. He stood there and relieved himself one more time, before I finally got my son to lift him out.

As I pulled out of the pigpen and into the driveway, I wondered if the smell would follow me home.

Driving a pig around in my car was not the best idea I ever had. What I now have is a giant pig named Spider Pig and a peculiar odor whenever I get in the car. When asked why I would drive a pig in my car, I can only tell you that it seemed like a good idea at the time. But I can assure you, I have learned my lesson: I will never drive another pig home.

Namaste, friends