Blog #9 by: Squealexander Hamilton
Farm Correspondent. Emotional Support Pig. Reluctant Chicken Roommate.
Strange Sightings on the Farm
Friends, gather round. I have seen many things in my piggy lifetime, but nothing could have prepared me for this week’s spectacle: Krystin, my human, cruising across the farm on the golf cart… with a rooster in her lap.
Yes. You read that right… A rooster… on her lap.
How many people can say they’ve seen that? Not many.
The rooster in question was none other than Chicken Little, Krystin’s pride and joy, her favorite feathered son. He was limping a bit and breathing heavy, so she scooped him up for a wellness ride. And let me tell you, he looked smug about it. Regal even. Like farm royalty being chauffeured around his kingdom.
This isn’t the first time Chicken Little has had special treatment, either. Once, back when I was still a house pig, he moved into the house with us for a week. Picture this: a rooster in a cardboard box (no lid, mind you), two dogs, and me. All under one roof. He slept inside at night like it was no big deal, then in the morning, waited patiently for someone to escort him outside. Hung outside the house during the day and then waited on the porch to be carried back into his box at night. I’ve got to admit it, as far as rosters go… he’s a good one.
But let me be clear: that doesn’t mean I like chickens.
I may grumble about them most days, and for good reason. You think I’m fast when it comes to food? Ha! These feathered freeloaders dive into table scraps like winged piranhas. One second, I’m sniffing out the best bits, the crunchy fries, the papaya, maybe a soggy crust, and before I can even blink, the chickens swarm in.
They come at the scraps like it’s the last supper, wings flapping, eyes blazing, beaks stabbing at everything in sight. It’s like watching a pack of tiny, beady-eyed velociraptors that skipped breakfast. By the time I shove my snout in, all the good stuff is gone. I’m left staring at lettuce stems and cabbage nubs, and let me tell you, friends, a pig of my stature deserves better.
So yes, Chicken Little is noble. A fine rooster. But his flock is ruthless when it comes to food.
The Puppy Situation
Speaking of ruthless, let’s talk about these humans who keep sneaking onto the farm and stealing my puppies. Okay, fine, “adopting” them. But it feels like theft to me.
The other day, a family showed up, cooed over the pups, and poof… two were gone before I had time to properly say goodbye. Out of the blue! No warning! No pigly consultation!
Those two puppies were Atlas, now called Thor, and Margaret, now called Storm. And oh, how I’ll miss them. Thor had this tender, gentle nature that could calm even the rowdiest of his siblings. And Storm, well, the name fits. She was bold, bossy, and absolutely everywhere at once. One of those puppies who made Krystin smile even on the toughest days. Watching her charge around like she owned the place was honestly impressive.
Now, Krystin swears she told me about this ahead of time, but maybe I wasn’t listening. In my defense, she talks a lot and I tend to zone out once I hear the words “shots,” “vet,” or “no, Hamilton, not for you.” Still, a little more notice would have been nice.
And yet, here we are. Down two puppies. I grumble, but I guess the humans seemed happy, and rumor has it the pups are headed to a good home. Still, I don’t like it.
The Humans Are Back
On the bright side, my regular humans are finally back from their trip. Grandma Donna and Great Aunt Lynn did an admirable job in their absence, feeding me, refereeing puppy jail breaks, and generally keeping the farm afloat. But there’s nothing quite like having my original three back where they belong.
Because let’s be real. I may love Grandma. I may even tolerate Aunt Lynn. But my humans? They’re my people. And I’m glad they’re home.
Final Thoughts
So that’s the news from the farm: chickens riding shotgun, puppies disappearing without my permission, and the humans returning from their mysterious travels. Through it all, I remain the steady voice of reason. The anchor in the storm. The pig who tells it like it is.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got scraps to guard from feathered dinosaurs.
Snoutfully yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Pig. Poet. Puppy Protector. Chicken Skeptic.
