Farewell to Melvin

Last night we had a bit of excitement on the farm. And by “a bit,” I mean it looked like a scene out of a wildlife documentary crossed with a Benny Hill skit.

It started innocently enough. A bear—yes, a bear—decided to drop by the pig pasture for a late-night snack. Apparently, word got out in the local wildlife grapevine that pigs are messy eaters (they are) and that there are always leftovers worth raiding. It’s basically the all-you-can-eat buffet for forest freeloaders.

Melvin's baby picture.

Now, imagine you’re a pig. You’re snuggled in with your litter mates, dreaming about the mythical slop fairy and all the glorious, goopy meals she might bring. Then you hear a rustle. Half-asleep, you think, “She’s real! The slop fairy is real!” You crack open one eye, expecting maybe an angelic glow and a sprinkle of cereal dust. Instead—BAM!—there’s a bear standing a few feet away, sniffing the ground and clearly not wearing a name tag that says “Hi, I’m Tinker Slopbell.”

Cue chaos.

Piglets—who, I should note, are now about 100 pounds each but still run around like drunk toddlers—erupted in panic, squealing and stampeding in all directions. Mama pig (bless her) did not take kindly to the intruder and went full berserker, launching an attack on the bear with the kind of fury only a mama pig can muster.

The dogs? Oh, they were delighted. Barking. Charging. Making it abundantly clear to the bear that he had overstayed his welcome. And then there was me—barefoot, in pajamas, wielding a spotlight like Lady Liberty on caffeine, sprinting across the yard screaming things I hope the neighbors were too far away to hear. (If not, I’m sorry, Edna.)

Honestly, at that point, I almost felt bad for the bear. All the poor guy wanted was a midnight snack. Instead, he got a full-blown production of Les Miséranimals.

Just before making his getaway over the fence, the bear made one last swat—maybe out of frustration, maybe aiming for a dog, maybe just wildly flailing—and clipped Melvin, our only spotted pig, squarely on the side. Poor Melvin went airborne like a cartoon pig in slow motion, landing with a thwump on top of a brush pile.

When the dust settled, and after doing a frantic headcount (one pig, two pig, red pig—where’s spotted pig?), we found Melvin. Not a scratch on him, but clearly not right. We got him to the barn for the night, hoping for the best. But by morning it was obvious he had internal injuries. No chance of recovery. Melvin was gently and humanely sent off to freezer camp.

So here’s to Melvin—the only pig in the bunch who looked like he’d rolled in polka dots. May you rest peacefully in slop heaven, forever feasting on leftover pancakes and apple cores, surrounded by bottomless mud pits and bears that know their place.

You were a good pig, Melvin. And now. . . you’ll be a good ham.

In the end, the bear fled, the pigs settled, the dogs got treats, and Melvin. . . well, Melvin made his final contribution to the farm. Life goes on—but we’ll always remember the night the slop fairy brought claws.

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