By: Squealexander Hamilton, Turkey Disposal Specialist & Cold-Weather Refugee
Thanksgiving: A Culinary Triumph (for Me)
Thanksgiving has officially ended, and I, Squealexander Hamilton, have been swimming in leftovers like a piggy Scrooge McDuck doing backstrokes through gold coins.
Stuffing? Delicious.
Turkey bits? Heavenly.
Mashed potatoes? A gift from above.
Random food scraps the humans “accidentally” dropped near my pen?
A blessing.
I don’t know who started this tradition of “one for me, one for Hamilton,” but I fully support keeping it alive through all future holidays, birthdays, long weekends, Tuesdays, etc.
But while the leftovers were flowing, something far less delicious was happening…
The Betrayal of the Weather
One day: 70 degrees.
Warm. Glorious. Sun on my snout.
I was practically summer vacationing.
NEXT DAY?
In the 30s.
A cold front slapped the farm like it had a personal grudge against pigs.
I squealed. Loudly. Repeatedly. The wind whistled, and I took it as a direct attack.
So when I saw the humans packing up the van for Atlas’s trip to Texas, blankets, pillows, snacks, cozy beds….I thought:
“That looks warm.”
“That looks comfortable.”
“That looks like MY chance.”
Operation: Pig in the Passenger Seat
I approached the van casually…
As casually as a 50 lb pig can approach anything.
The door was open.
The warm air drifted out.
I swear I heard the blankets whisper, “Hamilton… join us…”
So naturally, I attempted to board.
Front hooves up on the step.
Snout ready to breach the threshold.
Heart pounding like a spy on a secret mission.
And then…
KRYSTIN: “Hamilton, absolutely not. Get down.”
RUDE.
She didn’t even consider the possibility that I could be an emotional support pig for the road trip. Or that I deserved a break from the wind. Or that I look amazing in a seatbelt.
For the record, I would have made an excellent travel companion.
I barely snore.
I only squeal at appropriate times.
And I enjoy snacks at a reasonable frequency.
But they foiled my escape attempt and shut the van door in my face.
Atlas: The Final Countdown
Today was the day.
Atlas, my sweet, gentle, endlessly lovable brother, officially left for Hunt, Texas.
I’ve been told the Hill Country is beautiful.
Rolling hills. Endless trails. Blue skies.
Honestly, it sounds like a postcard someone forgot to add pigs to.
Humans bustled around packing his things:
Blankets, treats, toys, and work equipment… the usual.
Atlas trotted around proudly, completely unaware of the dramatic hole he was about to leave in my heart.
Donna hugged him approximately ninety-seven times.
Paul told him to “be a good boy,” like Atlas has any setting other than “angel.”
Krystin and Chris kept saying they weren’t ready for the drive.
And me?
I tried to act cool.
Stoic.
Emotionally unshakable.
…But I may have let out a tiny, high-pitched squeal when they drove away.
JUST ONE.
A Pig’s Honest Truth
I’m going to miss him.
He was gentle.
Kind.
Respectful of mud boundaries.
Never stole snacks.
Never bumped me with his giant puppy paws.
A rare gem of a dog.
But he has a beautiful home waiting for him. One where he’ll be cherished, exercised, and probably fed more consistently than I approve of.
Hunt, Texas, you better appreciate the treasure you just got.
And if you don’t?
I know how to get into a minivan…
I’ll come check on him myself.
Snoutfully Yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Thanksgiving Enthusiast.
Atlas Fan Club President (Reluctantly Retired).
Aspiring Van Passenger & Cold-Weather Refugee.