I Escaped with My Life, But Not My Hoodie

The pigs had spent most of the morning outside playing, but when I returned home from the post office they were intently working on arranging their bed inside.  This involves shifting covers with their hooves, nuzzling them with their noses, and occasionally picking them up with their teeth.  But today, they never seemed to find their bedding satisfactory.  It was too cold.

When I knealt to greet them, Finn began tugging gently on my down coat.  What was my pig doing?  I removed the coat and placed it on rotating black chair behind me where another beige jacket sat.  The outer material was such that it probably wouldn’t take much for a little tear.  He promptly began pulling it down towards his bed along with the other one.

I pitied the poor pig, but I couldn’t let him have my coat.  So instead I laid down on their bed and let him squirm his way into my hoodie, the one I wore when I bottle-fed them milk on their first day here.   Chesapeake soon followed and in typical Chesapeake fashion, he wiggled his way in between Finn and me.  Being an acquiescent herd leader, Finnemore contented himself in his new position.

It was like I had abruptly gained 160 pounds across the waist.  The band of the hoodie stretched to its limit and slid a couple of inches up my back to compensate for the extra inches around.  For awhile I rested there in a state of  peace and contemplation.  I had nothing pressing to do and  there was something relaxing about the whole thing.  Until gradually I noticed my left hand going numb and realized that the 160 pounds of pig on my left arm might be affecting the blood traveling there.

It wasn’t turning purple and I don’t think it would have (blood was still getting there, only slower), but it made me think I ought to get moving anyhow.  The only problem was I could not move, at least not easily.  With one arm pinned to the floor and a hoodie packed tight with pig, my mobility was limited.  I assessed the situation: if I got my left arm out from underneath the pigs I could use it to help wriggle my right arm out of its sleeve; then it would only be a matter of wriggling my body out of the blue and white hooded sweatshirt.   It would be possible to make it out alive, but not without a loss: the hoodie would have to be left behind.

And how to do all of this without making a stir?  I always feel slight pangs of guilt disturbing the princes of Piscataway or leaving at all.  I stalled; I stalled; I stalled–and then I acted.  Quickly I elevated the two grunting bundles in the air, withdrawing my left arm from the sleeve.  It was now somewhat free, but still confined to the inside of the hoodie.  I waited a little while longer.  I figured if I completed the process in installments, Finnemore and Chesapeake would hardly notice it happening.  After a few more minutes, I used my newly freed left hand to assist freeing my right hand.  I stalled again.  Finally, at the right moment, I moved.  I lowered my head through the neckline, snuck it by the sleeping pigs inside, and with a little more squirming, I was out.

Looking down at the pigs with my hoodie on, I laughed and buried them in additional covers.  Hopefully they weren’t cold anymore.

Finnemore (left) and Chesapeake (the bump) Blanketed in My Hoodie.