Cover image for Lowell : the true story of an existential pig
Title:
Lowell : the true story of an existential pig
Author:
Balliet, Gay Louise, 1952-
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
Far Hills, N.J. : New Horizon Press, [2000]

©2000
Physical Description:
xiii, 298 pages : illustrations ; 24 cm
Language:
English
Personal Subject:
ISBN:
9780882821931
Format :
Book

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SF393.P74 B35 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Central Closed Stacks
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Summary

Summary

This light-hearted, inspiring tale of an unforgettable pig who dances to the call of "Baryshnikov" and even saves his owner from a fire will captivate animal lovers everywhere. 16 photos.


Author Notes

Gay L. Balliet teaches English and writing at Cedar Crest College


Reviews 1

Publisher's Weekly Review

Move over, Babe! Balliet's Vietnamese pot-bellied pig has brought Balliet not only valuable companionship but a new outlook on life, one she believes other people can learn from their pigs. Not only is Lowell smart, strong-willed and affectionate; he has even (at least in the author's view) saved Balliet's life, by driving off a mentally ill neighbor Lowell apparently sensed was on the verge of assault. Lowell "pushes my nose; I push his backAquid pro quoAwe are brother and sister. Further proof that Lowell regards me as a pig is his need to communicate with me in pig language," an articulate m?lange of squeals and barks. In 24 wide-ranging and chatty chapters, Balliet, a professor of English at Pennsylvania's Kutztown University, shows how the other pigs and piglets in her lifeAfrom "tiny wild piglet" Ivy Mae to the admirably self-possessed Martini, "as pink as cotton candy"Aconfirm and demonstrate their species' virtues. Balliet's Touched by All Creatures gave an account of life with her veterinarian husband in the Pennsylvania Dutch Country. Her new book brings in another delectable trough's worth of vets-at-home and vets-on-the-road anecdotes. It also permits itself a wider range of philosophical and psychological speculation: "The pig has given us something no other animal can: a new lease on lifeAthe philosophy of existentialismAby which one can fashion all future decisions." Readers fond of their own pigsAor of dogs, vets, or farms, or of books about themAmay enjoy Balliet's book, even if they remain unwilling to swallow her broadest conclusions whole hog. 34 b&w photos not seen by PW. 10,000 first printing. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Excerpts

Excerpts

Chapter One Pig de Résistance     One of the conditions I set for agreeing to marry my husband, Edgar, was, "Thou shalt provide me with hordes of pets." And "hordes" it became, as almost directly after coming back from our honeymoon, I began my animal collection. During the years since we were married, I have accumulated a menagerie of animals rivaling Dr. Doolittle's. Our backyard now resembles Hicks's The Peaceable Kingdom , with languid creature eyes peeking out from behind every oak tree and from underneath the rhododendron and mountain laurel lining the driveway.     In the beginning, while Edgar and I were living in a mobile home, I took in my first sickly stray kitten, eyes passed over and nose leaking. His name was Tuxedo Timmy. He was a special guy who first stole my heart with his charming and eccentric personality. He reminded me of television's old Felix the cat. My relationship with Timmy was just the beginning of my love affair with animals. By the time Edgar finished veterinary school, we had accumulated three horses and another cat. After we moved and built our cottage in the woods, within a few short years I managed to gather upwards of thirty barn cats, ten house cats, two dogs, sundry saltwater fish, a Scotch Highland steer, a donkey, a burro, a llama, an alpaca, seven horses, and, finally, the pièce de résistance--a pig.     Lowell is my pet. He is also the love of my life, much to my husband's chagrin.     The first time I met Lowell I was immediately enthralled. I remember the encounter fondly. That day Edgar had some veterinary work in the Poconos--a honeymoon vacation resort area in eastern Pennsylvania. Whenever he was called upon to doctor animals in the Poconos, I begged to go along, mostly because sometime during the day he would take me to lunch at Henri's restaurant. So, that day, while I patiently accompanied him on his morning calls, I was secretly counting the minutes until I would be tasting Henri's chicken Caesar salad. I love to eat, and that's only one of the things I have in common with pigs. My task was to wait out the veterinary work until lunch time.     "I just have this one call to do before we head up to the Poconos," Edgar said at seven that morning as he pulled the truck into the Conley's driveway.     A red, rectangular, aluminum-sided horse barn loomed out of the morning mist, and beyond it I could barely see three horses standing knee-deep in the marshy grass. The earth was damp with ground fog. We pulled up to the barn and shut off the engine, and when I opened my door, the mist curled lazily inside our truck cab. It was like T.S. Eliot's yellow fog that, cat-like, rubbed its back along the windowpanes. I inhaled the fresh, moist air and noted the particular brand of silence that enfolded this part of the valley. Every sound was muffled. Only the horses shifting in the grass could be heard as they awaited their breakfast.     How still the atmosphere, how unearthly. Yet how sweet and clean the grasses, how pungent the smell of horse manure. The wet air sharpened the senses--made them keener, more discriminating.     "What are you doing at this barn?" I asked, inhaling a deep, moist breath. I stretched and yawned, images of Henri's salad already dancing in my head.     "Just vaccinating a bunch of pigs," Edgar said, rummaging through his truck for vials of vaccines. "It won't take long--about nine pigs in all--then we'll head for the Poconos and Henri's."     "Oh, boy," I said, "Hurry up. I'm starving."     While he gathered the equipment, I sank comfortably into the passenger seat and propped my feet on the dashboard as the waves of mist rolled in through my window. Through the windshield I noticed a low, dark, bulky figure wading through the fog-wrapped weeds by the barn. Whatever it was crawled nearly on the same plane as the worms: it was very short, not much higher than the plants, and it had a low center of gravity--like Steven Spielberg's film creation E.T. And for that moment it looked just as alien. I squinted to make sense of it.     "What's that?" I whispered, the fog swallowing up my words.     "Huh?" Edgar said, staring at the hulk slowly approaching the truck. "Oh," he laughed, "that's Hazel. I forgot to tell you--they're Vietnamese potbellies I'm vaccinating--a litter of babies."     I took my feet off the dashboard and opened the door. "Potbellies? I'm coming along to help," I said with sudden interest. "Henri's can wait."     The mother pig bored through the knee-deep grass and past the barn and headed directly toward us. Her abdomen swayed from one side to the other--first to the east and then to the west--a meaty metronome. Her belly was a pendulous, flaccid sack--not because she was fat, but because she was stretched out of shape from carrying babies and feeding them. Her teats were full of milk. They dangled only an inch above the ground. In fact, the teats scraped the ground every so often as she maneuvered over grass clumps and hillocks. I winced as she crossed over the newly graveled driveway, its stones rasping her soft underbelly. Hazel strolled alongside the truck and stopped to inspect us. She sat down on her haunches, exposing her red-raw teats, and looked quizzically up at us, emitting a quick, low, contented grunt.     Oddly, I felt compelled to answer her greeting. "Good morning, Hazel. Your poor belly looks sore," I said. "You must have had an awfully heavy load of babies. But don't worry, you'll get your shape back in a few weeks." Then I said to Edgar, "Do pigs bite?" I was completely ignorant of pig behavior.     "Adults can," he said. "It's their natural defense. They grow pretty good-sized teeth, and when they get really annoyed they use them. They can also slash with their tusks if they need to defend themselves against another animal."     "Yikes," I said, regarding the cute, smiling face on this quirky concierge of the barnyard. "She looks friendly enough. Do you think she'll let us into the barn?"     "Yeah, she's a pretty good pig. But I don't know how she's going to handle having her babies vaccinated."     "What's the big deal about getting a shot?" I asked. "How does the mother even know the piglets are getting injections?"     "Oh, you haven't been around pigs much, have you?" Edgar laughed. "Pigs are the over-protective mothers of the animal world. She knows that her babies are just as afraid as she is of any kind of restraint--no matter how innocuous it really is. Pigs always think that no matter what a person does to them, they're dying. And they squeal and scream and carry on until you'd swear they were going to kill themselves with their own hysteria. And you can't try talking them out of their unreasonable fear because to them a situation of restraint is life-threatening. When you're dealing with pigs and especially pig mommies, the only thing you can do is learn to mentally block out the screaming. And then you just do what you need to do, as fast as you can, and release them. When Hazel hears her piglets screaming, she'll try like hell to come to their defense. Mother pigs are very protective."     "Isn't it funny how different animals react differently to veterinary care?" I mused while helping Edgar gather his supplies. "Horses, for example, will take a shot without blinking an eye--most of them, anyway. Cows, too. And dogs and cats, for the most part. But pigs must be natured differently. That's interesting. Are you sure they are reacting solely out of fear, or could they possibly be protesting out of a sense of our taking away their right to control what's happening to them? Or maybe they are expressing pure anger at the restraint. Actually, it could be a number of things the pigs are protesting. Fear might be the obvious one, but I thought pigs were supposed to be intelligent. Maybe they're indignant at someone trying to force them into a situation they haven't orchestrated."     "Oh, you're such a philosopher," Edgar laughed. "No, I think they're just scared. Come on, grab the vaccine. Let's get the pigs done."     We walked into the barn where Mr. Conley and his oldest daughter were hovering over a wooden box in a corner of the tack room. We said good morning, and Edgar began drawing the vaccines into the syringes.     The sound of rustling straw emanated from the wooden box--baby pigs, no doubt.     "Does it make any difference which of the pigs we do first, Doc?" Jim Conley said as he Stepped over the partition and into the box. There was a scuffling, and then I heard low chirping noises coming from the enclosure. Mr. Conley reached inside to calm the little animals. With that, a chorus of high-pitched screams hit the air, breaking the damp silence of the morning.     I had once seen a television factoid explaining that a jet engine blast has a decibel rating of 135. In comparison, a pig's scream has a rating of 133 decibels. I agreed with those findings as I winced at the earsplitting shrieks. Edgar's warning words about pig hysteria repeated in my mind. Then, as quickly as they had begun, the cries ended. Curiosity getting the better of me, I slipped into the tack room and peered inside the babies' box. There, cuddled into a mass in a corner of the four-by-four-foot wooden pen, were nine or ten piglets, all combinations of black and white. So entwined were they with each other that I could not tell which pig the legs belonged to and which pig the tail belonged to. Everything was mixed up on the pile--like a Picasso painting. They huddled together, their tiny, wrinkled noses sniffing the air for danger.     "How beautiful? I gasped, reaching toward them. When they saw my hands coming for them, squeals let loose from the box, and the mass of pigs ran, in unison, to the other corner half hidden by an overhead shelf. They cowered beneath the overhang, each frantically pawing its brothers and sisters in an effort to dig its way to the bottom (and safest) part of the pile.     Mr. Conley, straddling the box and reaching under the shelf to grab the first patient, said, "Say, do you like them? I have two males left. The rest of the litter is spoken for." At the sound of his voice, the pile of piglets raced with a united squeal to the opposite corner where they pushed themselves into another jumbled pile. The tiny, frightened eyes darted anxiously from me to their owner.     They were surprisingly fleet of foot for such young, solid porkers. Sleek and compact, the cylindrical animals gave no sense of preciousness or brittleness, unlike small kittens and puppies. They were speeding bullets with legs. The size of a soup can, they looked as densely packed, too. Those big, brown liquid eyes radiated their fear of predators, large or small. Their expressions bespoke abject fear of injury and death by most anything. Their headlong rush to the opposite end of the pen demonstrated their terror of larger, carnivorous beings such as myself. No doubt they were sizing me up for my ability to make scrapple out of them.     "It's okay, piggily wiggilies," I cooed, completely smitten by their miniature stature and vulnerability. I wanted to take each piglet into my arms and protect it against the mad vaccinator. But, instead, I tried to reassure them with words. I said, "The shot will only last a few seconds, and then you can go back to Mommy. We won't hurt you--just a little sting."     The pile of pigs stared uncomprehendingly at me. They readied themselves to run to the opposite corner.     "I am absolutely enthralled," I said. "Piglets are the contest winners of cute animal babies. Of course, Hazel out there is nice, too, but her features and size have grown out of their initial enchanting stage. She's still a pretty pig, Mr. Conley, but nothing like her babies."     Mr. Conley laughed and grabbed one of the pigs as they raced again in hog unit formation to the opposite corner. Caught helplessly in his grip, the one piglet revved his jet engine. In a microsecond it was screaming such a high-pitched sound that I thought for sure we would all be deaf for at least two weeks. It was louder and shriller and more piercing than any rock concert I had ever been to. Jim held onto the wriggling animal while it launched a horrendous, unabated attack on our ears.     "THEY HATE BEING PICKED UP," Jim yelled over the voice of the pig. "AND THEY SCREAM LIKE HELL." He put the pig down again, and it shut up instantly. "I really don't have the time to play with them and acclimate them to people," he said in a normal voice. "They're a bit wild right now."     Mr. Conley's daughter, Katie, left us for a moment, then appeared in the doorway. "Hazel is trying to get into the barn to get to her babies. She is really upset. Do you hear her trying to break in?" she said. "I have everything locked tight."     I could faintly make out the sound of wood banging against wood--a persistent barrage. Katie ran out into the aisle, but it was too late. The hundred-pound mother pig had barreled with Schwarzenegger-like strength into one of the two barn doors--doors tall and wide enough to allow a tractor through--and knocked it off the hinges.     "Look out! Here she comes!" Katie shouted.     "Quick! Get into the box with me and the piglets," Jim yelled. "She can't get us there." Edgar and I hopped into the pen as Hazel, snorting and squealing with fury, plowed her way into the tack room.     The alarmed piglet had scrambled back to the camouflaged haven of its brothers and sisters. Temporarily, we lost it as it burrowed quietly into the black and white uniformity of the group. Immediately when her brood quieted, the mother calmed, too. Moments later, she was hunting for spilled grain, as docile as when we had seen her earlier.     "Here, Hazel. Here, Hazel," Katie called. Hazel answered, "Froo-oo-oom," turned, and sashayed off as calm as could be in Katie's direction. Edgar quickly jumped out of the box and barricaded the door to the tack room. Then I stepped over the partition and out of the box so that Edgar could administer the vaccines. While he injected one piglet, I readied the next one.     Jim snagged another piglet as the herd raced beneath the shelf. It was a male. The raucous squealing started again as Mr. Conley held the pig's head against his chest, its back end exposed for the shot. Once again, Hazel began throwing herself against the door with motherly ferocity. Quickly, Edgar injected the piglet. Last, he ran a pink chalk mark down the pig's back to mark him.     What a racket the pig made--all over a silly shot. But to him it was hardly innocuous. His mouth gaped, opening and panting with every intake of breath and with every scream. I held my ears against the wailing, and at the same time, I also looked into his eyes. And what I saw wasn't necessarily fear. No. I was convinced he was not screaming out of cowardice. To the contrary. What I recognized in those crystal-brown eyes was nothing short of indignation. The piglet was staging conniptions, because we were violating his sense of dignity and self. He had not sanctioned this shot-giving ceremony. It was something that had been decided by someone else, another species no less. His fury was against our forcing him into something he wanted no part of.     This pig's loud protests were like the "frantic screams" of all the characters of modern literature beset by existential angst, that feeling of dread or death that forces the hero to sustain a sense of self. Those characters, like Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King, Joseph Heller's Yossarian, and Norman Mailer's protagonists, were all rebels, all radical innocents who were desperately trying to cling to a sense of self-determination amid a dehumanizing society. Similarly, this potbelly seemed to be yelling in his piggy voice, "No, no, no. I won't have it. I refuse categorically because I have not chosen to be immunized. I have not allowed you to lay a hand on me!" Indeed, the pig was a radical innocent--a pure, unadulterated being of the barnyard who, at the moment, was reacting hysterically and with much raucous objection to the taking away of his right to direct his future and act according to his personal needs.     In only a few seconds, Jim released the pig to the rest of the pack. Then he picked up the next one. I had already drawn up all the other vaccines and put them within Edgar's reach. But I had to leave--the noise was too deafening, and my sympathy for the little piglets too overwhelming.     "I told you pigs always scream like that," Edgar yelled after me as I fled, hands cupping my ears. "It will be all over in a few seconds anyway, Gay." I ran from the tack room, past Katie, who had locked a furious Hazel into a horse stall, out to the yard and into the truck.     I slammed the truck door to shut out their screams and misery. There were eight more pigs to be done. But even in the truck I could still hear the cries from the defenseless animals. I could imagine all that was happening by listening to the squeals. With the first sharp squeak there was the capture of another victim. Once the shrieks became continuous and panting, I envisioned Edgar rubbing the pig's rump with alcohol. Add a few seconds for him to reach for the syringe, in which time the squeal lowered a few decibels to 130, and then the highest shriek of all--the shot hitting home. The screams continued until Edgar had drawn the chalk line across his back. Then complete silence as the inoculated piglet was released into the pen. In the background, the mother wailed miserably.     After fifteen minutes of this commotion, there was dead quiet. The fog was starting to lift, and the horses in the field were calmly devouring their breakfast. Deciding that Edgar must have finished vaccinating all the pigs, I climbed down from the truck and stepped once again into the barn. Edgar was drying his hands with paper towels, and he and Jim were walking from the tack room, mission accomplished.     I peeked into the wooden box where the mass of piggies huddled, probably fearful I was going to do something else to them. Only a few weeks old, I thought, but so aware of their own helplessness and their loss of dignity. Eighteen little chocolate eyes stared with wary anticipation. I was immediately smitten. I could conquer those instinctive fears once the animal trusted me, I thought. A pig of my very own, I mused, would feel safe and protected in my arms. He would forget he was prey.     I walked over to Jim and Edgar.     "I want one," I said.     Edgar's eyes popped. Then they rolled with disapproval. "You already ..."     I cut off his words. "I want a pig," I declared smiling. "Of the two males that are left, I want the tiniest--the runt."     "Step right over here, young lady, and take your pick," carnival Jim cajoled, putting his arm around my shoulder.     Edgar lingered behind as if by ignoring my enthusiasm it would disappear. He might have known that wouldn't work.     Jim stepped again into the box, and the pigs shrieked and darted beneath the shelf. Jim knew the pigs individually by their markings. He pointed out two piglets--one with a lot of chrome (white hair) around his neck and the other with a smaller collar. The one with the smaller collar was the runt of the litter. He looked up at me, and I looked at him. I was enamored by his rich, dark chocolate eyes. He didn't turn away as I bent down toward the box, just stared at me curiously. I was permanently enchanted, love-struck.     "That one!" I said, pointing at my piggy. The smallest pig looked up at me, sniffing the air with his rubbery nose, and then he turned with a mini-snort and ran to the safety of the pack.     "Gay, you don't really want...." "Vaguely I heard Edgar's disapproval in the background.     "When can we pick him up?" I asked Jim.     "They'll be ready to go in another four weeks," Jim said.     "How much is he?"     "Fifty dollars."     "Deal," I said, my smile widening into a grin.     "Some deal," Edgar mumbled. He was shaking his head, hoping to dampen my resolution, but when I really want something, I am adamant. Looking at me, Edgar knew I was determined to have this pig.     Although Jim had encouraged me, I didn't need any prodding.     Jim went on to explain, "As I said before, they're a bit wild right now. They haven't been handled much, but if you spend time with your guy, he'll tame up nice for ya," Jim said. "Ya know, all my life I've been a dog person. My dog went with me wherever I went--to the racetrack, to the market, downtown, everywhere. Now don't get me wrong--I just love dogs. But, damn it, as far as I'm concerned, you can't beat a pig for a pet."     I looked at Edgar for a sign of weakness.     Jim continued, "Yep, I love pigs. They're so intelligent it's scary. Ours certainly can out-think me. Plus, they're ten times cleaner than any dog, and they're very affectionate. Hazel follows me around the farm all day--just has to be with me all the time."     "I don't know the first thing about keeping a pig," I admitted.     "Oh, there's nothing to it. You buy a little pig chow for his two daily meals. After he gets to know where home is, you'll be able to just let him loose, and he'll pick up scraps and graze in your yard. They are real easy keepers. Pigs are very territorial, so they won't wander away. They spend all day just rooting around the yard, searching for different things to eat. In fact, you probably won't have to feed him at all during the summer and fall. They find enough food around to live off entirely."     "See," I said to Edgar who was frowning, his passive method of disapproval. I knew this meant he had given ground and I smiled warmly at him. Edgar just shook his head. "It won't take any trouble to have a pig," I parroted Jim. "All you do is let him out into the yard, and he'll take care of himself."     "Yeah, right," Edgar said and sighed, obviously resigned.     "Sure, sure," said Jim. "It's true, Doc. You'll be glad you took him. They make wonderful pets. I promise you won't regret it. If you don't like him, I'll take him back."     "Well, I can't argue with those terms," Edgar said.     "I love him already!" I said, bursting with childlike excitement. "I can't wait to pick him up."     I took one more peek into the wooden box where the piglets huddled, but I couldn't recognize mine hidden amongst the rest of the camouflaged group. So I said goodbye to them all and climbed into the truck. Edgar pulled out of the driveway, and we headed toward the Poconos.     That afternoon, after lunch at Henri's, we stopped at the Crossings Outlet Mall in Tannersville to visit our friend Linda who had a shop there.     "Hey, Linda," I called, bursting through the revolving doors. "Guess what I got today?"     "Now what!" she giggled as she saw the telltale frown on Edgar's face.     "A Vietnamese potbellied pig!" I proudly exclaimed.     She looked incredulous. Then she turned with a grin to Edgar, who was rolling his eyes again. "A pig! A little piggy-wiggy?" she cooed in a high little girl's voice.     "Yes," I said proudly. "He's the cutest thing. Pigs are supposed to be very intelligent, and they're no bother at all to keep. After he gets accustomed to his new home, all you do is let him loose, and he will hunt for his own food and stay right around the house. He won't roam like dogs do."     Linda's mouth hung open as I told her about our morning. Edgar wandered the store surveying the goods. After I finished, Linda offered no comment for quite awhile, and for just a moment I thought I'd better be prepared to accept some motherly advice to the tune of, You really don't need another animal.     But I was wrong.     After a few silent moments, Linda said, "I want one, too!"     I was struck speechless. Then I came to my senses.     "Great!" I said. "We'll call Jim when we get to the truck. He's got just one more left. I'm telling you--they're going like hot cakes! We're so lucky to have gotten one before they were all adopted?     Edgar came out of the shoe department and noticed our enthusiasm. "What are you two conjuring?" he asked suspiciously.     "Linda's getting the other pig!" I squealed with delight. "She's getting Lowell's brother!"     "Lowell?" Linda said. "You named him Lowell ?"     "Yes, I was thinking about what I would name him on the way up here. That's a pretty unique name for a pig, isn't it? A boy I went to elementary school with had the name Lowell, and I always thought it so distinctive. I especially like the mellow notes in the name. You should see my little pig, Linda. He has such beautiful eyes."     Edgar was rolling his eyes again.     I pressed my hands together. "Yes, I was thinking about calling him either Lowell or Lyle . I finally decided on Lowell."     "Then my pig will be named Lyle," Linda said happily.     "Great! Lowell and Lyle--the two pig brothers."     "What's Jack going to say?" Edgar asked with an eyebrow raised. I knew what he was thinking: his own wife might be a lost cause, but he could save his fellow man, Jack, by deterring Linda from going down the same path.     "What's he going to say?" Linda said, hands on hips. "He's not going to say anything! If I want a pig, I am going to have one. My husband's got nothing to do with it. Whenever he wants something, he goes out and gets it. He never asks me if he can get those things, so why do I need to ask him?"     She and I slapped a high five--a signature of unity and triumph. Our determination to own pigs made us feel like low-key feminists in a man's world.     "Lowell and Lyle," Edgar said, sighing as he followed me through the revolving doors to the outside.     "Yep, isn't it great?" I laughed. "Isn't it great Linda is taking one, too? Our pigs can visit each other during the summer when school is out, and they can go camping together. And when I am busy, Linda will pig-sit Lowell, and I will sit for Lyle. The pig brothers can always stay in touch and visit each other; we can have pignics --get it? Oh, I can just see them playing and roughhousing by the pool while you cook the burgers over the grill and I get the drinks for the four of us." I skipped down the pavement toward the truck.     "Yeah. Jack, I'm sure, will be simply overjoyed."     I quietly ignored Edgar's dampening remark, figuring Lowell and I would eventually win him over. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Linda waving from the store's big window. The smile on her face was nearly as broad as the one on my own. Copyright © 2000 Gay L. Balliet. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgmentsp. xi
Author's Notep. xiii
Introductionp. 1
1 Pig de Resistancep. 7
2 Lowell Comes Homep. 21
3 Lowell Grows Upp. 35
4 Lowell's Coming-Out Partyp. 53
5 Pig Philosophyp. 65
6 Lowell Positioningp. 71
7 Piggy Campp. 83
8 The Giant Gumdropp. 91
9 To the Rescuep. 101
10 People, Pigs, and Dietsp. 109
11 Pig Pen Palsp. 117
12 Brush With Danger, Brush With Deathp. 131
13 Enter Lucille and Sibling Rivalryp. 141
14 Famous Pigsp. 149
15 Larry and the Invisible Fencep. 163
16 A Blanket in a Pigp. 173
17 Ivy Maep. 185
18 Our Pig Familyp. 197
19 Pig Missionsp. 215
20 Party Pigp. 227
21 Annie Louisep. 239
22 Lancelot Lowellp. 259
23 Junkyard Pigsp. 273
24 The Existential Lifep. 285
Epiloguep. 295