It was a hot, muggy summer day on the Kingston Hog Farm of Iowa. The pigs had all gotten their feed, and while some lazily chomped on dried corn and leftovers from the sturdy trough, others were settling comfortably in the mud, cooling their hooves in the muck. Darlene sighed a deep breath of relief and looked over at Donna Scrofa, who was just about to dose off for a pignap. Donna delivered no less than 13 piglets only a few weeks ago — a record for the Kingston Farm! — and today, did not have the energy to chase them around the barn. Donna’s pig husband Roscoe Scrofa, meanwhile, was teaching his oldest pig Geoff son how to properly find a truffle in the dirt, though at the farm, the most they’d every come across was a loose bobby pin that fell off the head of the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Jones. A few feet away from Roscoe stood Jerry, a fairly particular pig who was the neighborhood neatfreak. Using his snout, Jerry was removing every last bit of mud from his hoof and perfectly coiled tail. He was an annoying pig, but you had to admit… his tail did gleam.
Yes, it seemed that all was well there on that small farm in Des Moines. Darlene sighed again, and nestled her pink head into the mud for some good ol’ fashioned R & R.
And then… a thunderclap. Thunder that boomed so loudly, each and every Kingston pig jumped to attention, frightened, pig hearts a-racin. Little Geoff ran underneath his Daddy’s legs, where he found 5 of his brothers and sisters waiting there already. The pigs all remained as still as possible. Until… BOOM! Another HUGE thunderclap, and a giant bolt of electric blue lightning out in the distance. In what seemed like seconds, the clouds descended over the Kingston Farm, the hot sun shying away in fear, and one… by one… by hundreds of thousands of rain drops plopped their way down on the tiniest farm in Iowa. Darlene, Donna, and a handful of others ran into the barn for shelter.
“Daddy, I’m scared!” Little Geoff cried.
“Oh, Geoff, you’re my big, brave man. It’s just a little rain… it’ll probably be over before you know it. Now, go play quietly with your brothers and sisters, and once the rain ends, I’ll take all of you out to the field for some apple picking. You run along now, and we’ll be picking apples before you know it.” Roscoe assured.
“OK…” Geoff whimpered, and began playing a lazy game of rummy with his pig sister, Maureen.
The most depressing story ever published on this blog continues after the jump. Plus, a lot of pictures of pigs swimming. It is quite literally insane. You’ve been warned.
15 Days Later
It was still raining. In fact, it had not STOPPED raining for a single day. Roscoe looked over to little Geoff, who was staring out at the rain, depressed. It didn’t look like they would ever go apple picking. But apple picking was the least of the pigs’ worries. Darlene and Donna didn’t want to bring up the obvious, but they were standing in a good 5 inches of water… and if the weather held up, sooner or later all of the pigs on the Kingston Farms would drown. Just yesterday, they were forced to move all of the piglets to the highest table in the barn, to keep them out of harm’s way. But there wasn’t enough room for the bigger pigs, and time was of the essence. Roscoe waded over to the girls to discuss a plan.
“We’re going to have to swim out of here.” Roscoe announced.
“Swim? You aren’t serious.” said Donna.
“Oh, but I am. If we stay here,” he yelled over the rain, “we’re doomed. We’re trapped. We need to leave in order to survive. Maybe find some people who can help us.”
“He’s right, Donna,” said Darlene.
“But what about the Jones’? They’re our owners! They’ll come back for us!”
Darlene looked down.
“What?” Donna pleaded.
“Donna… I saw the Jones’ leave the farm last week. They packed up the truck with all of their stuff,” he paused. “Donna… They’re not coming back.” Roscoe lifted his hoof out of the surrounding ocean and put it around her neck.
“It can’t be…” she shook her head sadly.
“It’s every pig for themselves,” Roscoe continued, determined. “Look, I have a plan. You two grab the girl piglets. I’ll take care of the boys. Geoff will help… he’s bigger than they are. We need to keep our group small,” he went on, “the more of the pigs that catch on, the lower our chances of survival. Keep the group small, you got it?”
They nodded.
“OK, follow me.”
The three of them waded over to the table, where Roscoe and Donna’s piglets were commiserating with the other local kids.
“Camman, guys, hop on down,” Roscoe ordered.
“But Daddy, I’m skehwed of the watah,” Roscoe’s tiniest daughter cried.
“No sulking, let’s go. Now.” He knew he was being harsh. But they had only minutes to escape without being seen. Minutes to escape to save their own lives.
One by one, the little piglets hopped down, 4 on each of their backs, with Roscoe big enough to paddle on his own.
“Daddy, what’s happening?”
“Not now, Geoff. We’ll explain everything later. Just follow us.”
Calmly, the small family of pigs plus Darlene exited the barn, out into the falling rain. Geoff had no trouble keeping up. They waded their way all the way to the Kingston Farm fence, before Darlene paused to catch her breath. The water was deeper here, her hooves barely scraped the ground. It was then that the other pigs back at the barn realized what was going on.
“Hey!” cried out Steve, “Where do y’all think yur goin?”
“Keep moving guys, don’t pay attention!”
“Hey!” Steve kept yelling. Now, the other pigs were joining in. “Wait you guys! Wait for us!!” Their voices grew quieter and quieter. “Hold on! Wait for us!” The pigs and piglets had swum far at this point, and had just turned at the end of the long driveway.
Roscoe remembers the last words he heard, from a nervous pig named Susan. “Roscoe!” she screamed. “What’s gonna happen to us?” With that, Roscoe said goodbye forever to Kingston Farm. He may have been born there. But he definitely was not going to die there.
The Next Day
The Scrofa’s plus Darlene had not fared well. While the rain had finally stopped, the strong current in the rushing water took the lives of three of the little Scrofa’s, who were too weak to hang out. Most of the other piglets were exhausted, and Roscoe, Donna, Darlene and little Geoff could barely swim another stroke. They were on the verge of giving up. They needed a place to lay down and rest, to regain their strength and perhaps sit down for a while. Little Geoff could barely move. The girls were on the verge of giving up.
And then Roscoe spotted it. A wall made up of filled plastic bags that were just above the surface of the water. The relief they were looking for! And beyond it… land. Dry land! They had made it.
“Land,” he sputtered, “Look, over there. Those bags. There’s land behind those bags.”
The girls didn’t have the energy to respond.
“We did it,” he heaved, “We did it. Tell the kids… we’re alive.”
With every last bit of energy they had left in them, the remaining Scrofa’s and Darlene climbed onto the soft bags. Behind those bags was a vast area of land, actual land, where they could walk, and sleep, and most importantly, not swim.
Within minutes, the lot of them fell asleep under the warmth of the morning sun’s blanket. For the first time in what seemed like years, Roscoe Scrofa smiled.
10 Hours Later
Roscoe opened his eyes to see all of the piglets still sound asleep on various plastic bags. Donna and Darlene had already awoken, and were just staring straight ahead, still tired.
“Who’s hungry?” he asked. Out from his miniature rucksack he procured an array of various corns, from feed to whole kernels to Geoff’s favorite, dried cob. The smell of the corn woke up the remaining piglets, still groggy from the journey, who, with a little encouragement, began nibbling away at the food. It was turning out to be a glorious day. There they sat, eating their dinner, eager to see the evening sun set behind the horizon.
Then, from out of nowhere, a gunshot. BANG.
The adults stood straight up. Where had it come from? Who was shooting? What was happening? They stood still, as still as still can be, afraid of what might come.
And then, another gunshot. And a thud. Roscoe looked over to see that their beloved friend Darlene, whom he had known since she was only a few days old, had been shot square in the forehead. Slumped over the bags, eyes open, she looked exactly as she had only seconds ago. Except now, a steady trail of blood began to trickle down her snout.
“RUNNN!!” Roscoe screamed.
They’re lives literally depending on it, Roscoe and Donna grabbed a piglet in their snouts and took off running in either direction. While Donna scrambled away on the dry land, Roscoe decided he’d be a harder target in the water, and dove in. Little Geoff, the only piglet big enough to swim, followed close behind, leaving his brothers and sisters to a most unfortunate fate. As they scrambled through the water as fast as they could, in the background, more gunshots.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Dad!” Geoff cried.
“Keep swimming!”
Bang. Bang. The shots were growing closer.
Bang. The sound was deafening.
“Geoff, you just keep swimming! Hurry, son!” Roscoe screamed. “Geoff? Geoff??”
But there was no answer.
“Please, God, help us,” Roscoe exclaimed as he clumsily thrashed through the foot high water.
Bang. The sound was so loud, it took Roscoe’s hearing. He continued swimming mightily as the light began to fade, the water rushing in over his snout and into his eyes. The long fight was finally over.
And then, not a sound. Absolute silence.
Des Moines County Sheriff Lippy Lipperton lowered his rifle and stared at the sad little pink body floating in the dirty water. He looked back at his Deputy Sheriff Lloyd Thompson, standing on the levee, dumbfounded.
“Aww Sherriff. Whydja hafta kill all of em? The lil’ ones were so darn cute.”
“You are some kind of damn idiot, Thompson. We can’t have these pigs livin’ on the levee,” Lipperton spoke with an intense lisp. “Their hooves, Thompson. Their hooves. They’re sharp. These hogs get to a-rootin, next thing you know, sandbags’er ruined. These sandbags get punctured, and all that water back there’s gonna come washin’ right on through. The whole river. Do you understand what I’m sayin?”
Thompson bit his lip. “Sherriff, furgive me if I’m speakin’ outta turn. But wasn’t there a better way? You didn’t have to shoot em…”
“Grow up. It happens every day. My gosh, that’s what slaughterhouses do — that’s how we get bacon and pork chops,” the Sherriff stated. “You like bacon and pork chops… right, Thompson?”
Thompson nodded.
“We’re not gonna lose this city because of a few useless Hogs.”
“Yes sir.”
“Call the Department of Transportation, tell them we’ve got some flatmeats they need to come pick up. Tell em to bring a net.” he ordered. “Damn, you gettin’ hungry or what?” he patted his bulbous gut. “I could use a ham sandwich myself.” At this, the Sherriff let out a hearty guffaw. Thompson whipped out his cell phone and began dialing the appropriate authorities, as he and the Sherriff walked back towards the squad car.
And the water was still.
Just then, two little pink snoutstrils came shooting out from the surface, and little Geoffrey Scrofa, son of Donna and Roscoe Scrofa, came up for air. The bullet had grazed his left ear, but he was OK. He was OK. He was alive.
He surveyed the scene and briefly lost his breath. There was his father, lifeless, and his brothers and sisters, who never stood a chance. He couldn’t find his mother. She was probably one of the first ones to go.
But this was not the time to mourn. Geoff had other things on his mind. Bigger things. Avengy things. So off he swam, little Geoffrey, into the sunset, to begin resting. Resting… and planning.
Because as his father used to say: Revenge, much like ham, is a dish best served cold.
The Swimming Pigs of Iowa is based on a true story, the facts of which can be found here: Luck runs out for pigs caught in flood via CNN. The author insists it started off as a kooky kids story with a horrifying ending, and admits that she got “carried away”, especially when it came to Google Image Searching “Swimming Pigs.” For this, and many other things, she apologizes.
