An Offshore Hog

Long ago I had a friend who lived on Monhegan Island, ME. He is now passed on so I guess he can't mind me telling this story. For the sake of his family’s privacy though, I will simply call him ‘Roy’. Families have lived for many generations on some of the bigger islands lying just offshore from Maine, some going as far back as colonial times even. Monhegan is around four and one half square miles in area and lies about 11 miles due south of nearest landing point in Port Clyde, St. George, ME.  and about the same distance east from New Harbor, ME. It is the first landfall offshore mariners see as they approach West Penobscot Bay from the ‘west’ when they are sailing ‘downeast’.

Roy was a very large, tall and very strong man, a lobsterman by trade. He was quite a character as almost all of the permanent Maine islanders are. He had some of the biggest hands I ever saw. Once in a bar in Boothbay Harbor, I saw Roy knock a man down who slid under a table in a booth. Roy reached in with one hand and ‘yarned’ the man out by the top of his head, as he later termed it. Did I mention he was a character? Of course the guy he was walloping on probably weighed only about 175 pounds or so, while Roy went 250 or above. After Roy yarned him out he hugged the poor guy, threw his arm around his shoulder and bought him another beer.

I was one of Roy shoreside contacts, a guy he could call to cart him around when he came ‘ashore’ to the mainland as he called it. He’d call me late at night sometimes after he’d run his lobster boat to the mainland for supplies or whatever. He kept a car ashore at either Port Clyde or New Harbor, but he often came ashore at the other harbor from his car and would need to be ferried around to pick up his car. I guess you might say I was an early and uncompensated ‘Uber driver’ unless you counted the mess of ‘short’ lobsters he always brought me. Short lobsters are those caught not quite measuring up to the legal size for selling. I can testify that they taste every bit as good as the legal ones too.

One night Roy called me from somewhere and I could hear a lot of crowd noise in the background. I thought it was a bar or someplace, so I asked him, “Where the hell are you anyway, Roy?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know,” he said. “Lemme ask.”

I heard him turn away from the phone and loudly shout over the background noise, “What the hell is the name of this F**king outfit anyhow?”  Turns out he was in just about the fanciest restaurant in Maine east of Boothbay Harbor! I’m pretty sure they were happy when I arrived to pick Roy up that night, but ol’ Roy himself didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

Did I mention Roy was quite the character?

Roy had a ‘pig’ as he called her - a 300-pound pet hog he called Priscilla. Somehow or the other he had acquired the hog as a piglet and raised her.  He kept this beast in his backyard, which was all rooted up into heaps and mounds by the hog searching for roots and other underground hog delicacies. Roy was quite proud of his pig and she was actually very gentle and sweet. Everyone on Monhegan knew about Priscilla and many brought table scraps for her to enjoy, so she was quite well fed overall. There was the fact that garbage can be a problem for disposal on a small island too.

Priscilla became too fat though and Roy’s wife - let’s call her ‘Jenny’, said it was time for Priscilla to go. In fact, Jenny was quite adamant about it and told Roy it was either ‘her or that damned hog’!  Let me say right here that Jenny and Roy were about the most mismatched couple you ever saw. There was Roy, a huge, rough and ready offshore lobster fisherman, and wild and untamed as ever could be, while Jenny herself was this tiny little 100-pound sweet doctor’s daughter from the mainland! How they ever got together I could never imagine, but there they were and seemed devoted to each other too. 

One day I got a call at the boat shop from Roy.

“Can you help me out for a few days, Pardner?” he asked. Roy always called me Pardner when he wanted something.

I didn’t know what he wanted so was a little hesitant. I asked, “What can I do for you, Roy?”

“I need you to hold on to my pig for a few days.” He said. “I’ve got to get rid of her.” He told me about Jenny’s ultimatum.

“Well, I guess I could keep her in my barn.” I said. I lived in a house with an attached barn.

“No, you don’t need to do that.” He said. “We can just chain her out at your boat shop until I can deal with her. She’ll be happy chained up outside anywhere. It’ll just be for a day or two. I’ll bring food for her and everything.”

So, I agreed and later that day a truck arrived at my shop with a huge crate in the back containing Priscilla. Built especially for transporting livestock, it was about six feet long by four feet high by two or three feet wide. It had carrying handles on each end like wheelbarrow handles, only much stouter. It resembled somewhat one of those Asian litters that Mandarins and entitled colonials used to like to be carried about in. Along with a couple guys in the truck, a couple more from my shop unloaded the crate and raised the gate at one end. Priscilla was unperturbed but relieved to be out of the crate.

The pig had a long and stout chain around her neck, like a very heavy duty dog’s leash. It was padded around the neck itself with a piece of rubber hose. We chained her to the axle of a big truck in the boatyard. That night I went home and told my wife about her, but for some reason, I didn’t think to mention it until around 10:30 that night.

“Where is she now?” my wife asked sharply.

“Chained up at the shop.” I said.

“Outside?” she asked, even more sharply.

“Yes.” I answered.

My wife had a really soft spot in her heart for animals of any kind.

“Well, that just won’t do!” she said emphatically “It’s supposed to go down into the ‘twenties tonight. You go get her right now and put her in the barn!”

Whatever was I thinking? Damn! Damn! Damn!

I put on my jacket and walked down to the boat shop, which was only about a quarter of a mile from my house. Priscilla was OK and very quietly allowed me to lead her by her chain back towards the house. It was a chilly October night with a full moon and all was well until we reached the railroad tracks crossing the road between the shop and the house. The tracks were shining in the street light there and a few feet from the tracks Priscilla applied her brakes and refused to go any further. Something about those tracks spooked her, and try as I might I could not budge her by pulling on her chain. I tried everything, cajoling, calling, sweet-talking, getting on my hands and knees across the tracks and pulling with all my might. She would not budge at all.  Finally, in desperation, I got behind her on my hands and knees, and by shoving with my shoulder against her rump I was able to finally force her over the first rail of the tracks. Once she saw where she was she scampered on across and trotted up the street a way and quietly stopped to await me. What a sweet and patient hog she was!

My knees hurt, my pants were dirty, and I had pig crap all over my shoulder. Breathing heavily as I got up, I heard a noise a hundred yards or so off to my left. I looked over to see a young couple just outside the doorway of a house. Apparently, it was a young fellow saying goodbye to his girlfriend after a date and they’d witnessed the whole fiasco, finding it funny indeed since they were both now doubled over with laughter.

Not finding the situation all that funny myself, I could still understand their glee. With as much aplomb and friendliness as I could muster, I waved and smiled as I thankfully picked up Priscilla’s chain to continue on to the barn.

True story!