Porky was one of many pigs born of an old sow. Unable to squeeze himself into space to nurse, Porky was pushed aside as a runt doomed to die. But my mother was not about to let that happen. With a baby bottle, she fed Porky until he was weaned and able to eat solid food.
But Porky, as we kids named him, was now spoiled. A domesticated pig who hung around the house, he apparently knew nothing else. Or did he? Jack, a Dalmation dog, became Porky's apparent mother. The need to be mothered was something perhaps he knew from instinct. Porky followed Jack around the yard. He ate with him. He slept with him. Everywhere Jack went, Porky was sure to go.
Mother wanted to return Porky to the pig pen where the other pigs were. But she was afraid to do so. As a gentle pig and known to humans as he was, Mother was afraid he'd not be accepted. As long as Jack could tolerate Porky, his life as it was would stay the same.
Eventually all of this would come to an end. Right through the middle of our property was a gravel road that led to other farms. This road extended a mile or so, reaching the Kentucky border. It was well-traveled. Porky saw no property boundary. Porky was found lying at the edge of the gravel road. It was a hit and run. The annoying little pig was gone. To us, we accepted it. Jack, however, seemed to have trouble dealing with Porky's death. For days, he would not eat.
We wondered if Porky had followed Jack as he tried to cross the road to get to the other side. Only Jack knew the answer to that, and he was not talking. It was apparent that Jack was grieving for his little friend. Animals do grieve, too. Eventually, after a few days, Jack began to eat again.
