...A Guinea Hog Love Story with Too Much Girth and Not Enough Glory
Let me paint you a picture. A few weeks ago, we brought home three pigs. Not just any pigs—Guinea Hogs. A heritage breed. Smaller. Friendlier. Easier to manage. Supposedly.
I wasn’t thrilled. I have history with pigs. And by history, I mean a deep-rooted fear based on one 800-pound sow who once decided to knock me over to see if I bounced. Spoiler: I didn’t. My English Shepherds came to my rescue, and the sow later went to the freezer. We have a rule here: Be nice or be tasty.
So, naturally, I wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to bring pigs back into the picture. But DH loves them. Thinks they’re the best farm animal there is. (He’s wrong, but marriage is about compromise... and sometimes letting someone else make a mistake you can later say “I told you so” about.)
To ease my anxiety, he chose a smaller breed this time. “They only get to about 300 pounds max,” he said, as if that’s a comfort. While he was shopping around, an online friend offered us a trio—one boar, two sows—for a very reasonable price. Bonus: she suspected the sows might be pregnant.
What we picked up were three pigs who had clearly eaten all the leftovers from everyone else’s dinners.
Now, I’m not one to fat shame. But when your pigs are more spherical than swine, you start asking questions. Like: Can they walk without rolling? Is that a back leg or a love handle? Can they actually get pregnant?
Turns out, the answer is no.
Not because it’s the wrong time of year. Not because the boar isn’t trying. No, no. He’s definitely trying. The poor guy is all in. Every time we look out in the pasture, it looks like the opening act of a barnyard soap opera.
But here's the kicker (or the lack of it): they can’t do the deed.
He tried mounting one of the sows, only to find that his stomach hit the runway long before his landing gear could deploy. The boar, like the sows, is carrying a few too many… well, everything. His belly hangs so low it sways like a hammock strung between two short trees. When he tries to mount, his stomach makes first contact—and also last. The required parts never even get close to the action.
And even if he was able to get his male parts anywhere near her female parts, her rump is so ample he still couldn't get close enough to seal the deal. The man is out there playing Twister with no hope of winning.
We witnessed one attempt that involved grunting, balancing, some half-hearted repositioning, and finally him just standing there, frozen, like he was trying to remember what step two was supposed to be. If I had a soundtrack, it would’ve been a slow, tragic harmonica solo.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. It was simply a failure of geometry.
So, no piglets. Just three extremely well-fed pigs living their best roly-poly lives.
We have officially reached the point where our pigs are too chunky for funky.
So back to plan A plan: Operation Slim Down. Less feed, more movement. Grazing on pasture only, no extra feed, more moving which involves one of us being out there and making them walk. Maybe we get them a goat-sized Fitbit. Maybe we sign them up for Zumba.
Because as it stands now, the only thing these pigs are breeding is sympathy.
If we can trim a few inches off the boar’s belly and fire up the romance again, we might finally get that litter of piglets my husband was hoping for.
And if not?
Well, they know the rule: Be nice... or be tasty.
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