Fat Pig!

Actually… Three Fat Pigs

Let me just start by saying: I’m not insulting anyone. I’m not being rude. And no, this isn’t a twisted retelling of The Three Little Pigs. I am speaking in the most literal, unmistakable sense of the phrase.

We have pigs.

Three.

Very. Fat. Pigs.

Now, for those of you who know me, this may come as a surprise. You see, my husband—bless his animal-loving soul—loves pigs. Thinks they’re fantastic. His favorite farm animal, hands down. Me? I hate pigs. I’m actually afraid of pigs. And before anyone calls me dramatic, let me explain.

I can handle a buck in full rut. No big deal. After all, he’s a vegetarian and just trying to keep the ladies to himself. He puffs up, pees on his own face, stomps around—typical guy stuff. But he's manageable. Give him a scoop of grain and he’ll forget he even had a girlfriend.

But pigs? Pigs are omnivores. That means meat is not off the menu—including, theoretically, me. I once had an 800-pound sow knock me over from behind. I wasn't injured—unless you count my dignity—but she could’ve had me as a snack if not for my two English Shepherds springing into action like furry avengers. They barked, snapped, snarled, and chased her off with the kind of energy that said, “Not today, bacon.”

And no, they didn’t leave a mark. We checked very thoroughly after she was slaughtered and hanging from the tractor bucket a few days later.

(Here on the farm we live by one simple rule: Be nice or be tasty.)

So, we've been blissfully pig-free for a few years. But DH has been making noises about wanting pigs again. Knowing full well that I have PTSD—Pig-Traumatic Stress Disorder—he promised we’d go with a smaller, more docile breed: the Guinea Hog. Supposedly calm, friendly, and maxing out at around 300 pounds for males, with the ladies topping out somewhere in the 200–250 range. Practically lap pigs, right?

While he was shopping around, an online friend offered to sell us her adult Guinea Hog trio—a boar and two sows—for a very reasonable price. She mentioned the sows might be pregnant. Based on “timing.”

(Translation: she’s 85% sure they’re pregnant and 100% sure they eat like they are.)

So we loaded them up and brought them home last Saturday.

And friends, let me tell you… these are not dainty pigs.

These are rotund, well-fed, morbidly obese pigs.

These pigs could roll down a hill and flatten your flower bed like a steamroller with a snout. If these pigs are pregnant, I fear for the structural integrity of the barn.

Which brings me to the bottom line—pun fully intended—there are at least three someones on this farm who are about to go on a diet. (And no, it’s not me. I’m still recovering from the trauma of chasing pigs out of the barn with a snow shovel.)

I’ll keep you posted on their progress. If they slim down and behave, they might earn a place here. If not… well… you already know the motto.

Be nice. Or be tasty.

Here's what a Guinea Hog is SUPPOSED to look like:

Kind of a smallish, chubby bear. Low to the ground. Fluffy-ish. Friendly. The kind of pig you wouldn’t mind sharing a sandwich with—if pigs ate sandwiches. (Spoiler: they would.) Short legs. Squishy face. Built like a very determined meatloaf. Basically, something you’d expect to find snoozing under a shade tree, oinking gently in its dreams, not plotting world domination.

Now here's what we actually got:

HOLY COW. Or, more accurately, HOLY FAT PIGS.

My husband had learned—after the fact, naturally—that Guinea Hogs are “easy keepers.” What that actually means is: if you so much as look at them while holding food, they gain five pounds. Feed them “a little extra just in case” and suddenly you’re raising potbellied freight trains.

These hogs aren’t just overweight—they’ve taken gluttony and turned it into a competitive sport. They aren’t waddling, they’re rolling. I half expected one of them to request a chaise lounge and a personal feeding assistant.

I stood there staring at them, speechless. Which doesn’t happen often, I assure you. The only thing that came to mind was, “We’re going to need a bigger trough. And maybe a forklift.”

Now, don’t get me wrong—they’re sweet. They grunt happily, they wag their tails like dogs, and they appear to be very pleased with themselves and their current… girth. But they were supposed to be small, manageable, gentle creatures. Instead, I’ve got three porcine Jabba the Hutts who look like they could crush a wheelbarrow just by looking at it funny.

And if the sows are pregnant (which they very well might be, based on how little we can see of their actual shape under all that… shape)… then this is about to get real interesting.

So, new plan: diet time. Pasture only. No snacks, no matter how cute they look at me.

And if anyone asks what kind of pigs we’re raising over here? The answer is simple: Big. Fat. Happy. Possibly pregnant. Pigs.

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