Well.
My humans are away again.
They claim they are traveling to a warm, sunny destination to celebrate their birthdays.
Apparently, this requires a cruise ship.
I would like it noted that Chris was sick on his birthday. Very tragic. Very unfair. I do agree he deserved a vacation.
However.
I also experienced emotional inconvenience during his illness.
Did anyone schedule a restorative seaside retreat for me?
No.
Instead, I was informed that pigs are “not allowed” on cruise ships.
I weigh approximately 50 pounds.
Fifty.
That is smaller than some carry-on luggage. I could absolutely qualify as a personal item.
This is discrimination.
Meanwhile… The Chaos Goblins Activate
Now.
The truly dramatic portion of this tale begins with Grandma Donna.
My favorite human.
Bringer of snacks.
Gentle soul.
Unwitting participant in high-intensity field operations.
She was placed “in charge.”
This is how all great disasters begin.
The puppies: Natty Bo, Alice, and Arthur, began their weekend behaving like cherubs sculpted from angelic clouds and good intentions. They even had a sleepover in the living room on a brand-new mattress Grandma bought them.
A mattress.
For them.
I sleep in straw like a pioneer, and somehow they get orthopedic foam.
They were polite.
They were snuggly.
They were suspiciously well-behaved.
Which should have been our first clue.
The next morning, they “helped” with feeding, meaning they supervised loudly. Natty Bo was on strict leash orders. Alice and Arthur were allowed to run free, drunk on their temporary promotion in the family hierarchy and the intoxicating scent of open fields.
Everything was going beautifully.
Too beautifully.
Because here is the critical detail:
They run home for dinner at night.
Under the cover of darkness.
On routine.
Like civilized woodland citizens.
But this was not night.
This was broad daylight.
And Grandma, armed with confidence and optimism, decided it was time.
And that…
is when dinner time betrayed us all.
The Gate of False Confidence
Krystin had said, “They run from the yard to the house every night.”
Grandma opened the gate.
The house is to the right.
Natty Bo turned left.
Into the field.
Like a tiny, fluffy general declaring, “We ride at dawn!”
Alice and Arthur followed immediately.
Of course they did.
And just like that…
The Chaos Goblins were gone.
Grandma vs. The Frozen Hills
Grandma attempted pursuit.
In snow.
On hills.
In daylight.
With three large puppies who suddenly remembered they are part wolf.
Let me gently remind you:
Grandma is not a spring chicken.
This was the athletic equivalent of asking your beloved book club president to compete in an Olympic snow-covered obstacle course.
She is climbing.
She is texting.
She is slipping slightly but refusing defeat.
And at this exact moment…
My parents are boarding a cruise ship.
Central Command: Floating Edition
As the boat pulls away from the dock, an SOS text arrives.
Impeccable timing.
Chris, Krystin, and Paul immediately establish Central Command at a random table on the ship.
Vacation? Suspended.
Chris calls Grandma on speaker so everyone can hear.
Grandma is understandably in distress.
Krystin and Chris are tracking the puppies in real time using a hi-tech GPS system. Thank goodness they had the collars on.
“Okay, they’re heading toward the fence line.”
“No, wait, Natty pivoted.”
“They’re moving toward the back acreage.”
“Arthur is just… large and committed.”
Paul is calling anyone within range who has boots and stamina.
Meanwhile, Grandma is marching uphill through snow like she accidentally signed up for Arctic Survivor: Puppy Edition.
For about ten hopeful minutes, it appears the puppies are returning home.
Alice comes back.
Relief washes over Central Command.
Then Natty Bo decides she has not yet completed her expedition.
She pivots again.
Arthur, full of enthusiastic loyalty, follows her into further chaos.
Escalation Protocol
Krystin issues the only logical order:
“Go get the mule or the truck. You cannot do this on foot.”
Grandma trudges back downhill. Locks Alice safely in the yard. Climbs into the truck.
Let me repeat:
This woman has just chased rogue giants across snowy hills and is now operating heavy machinery.
This is like watching your sweet church aunt suddenly audition for Fast & Furious: Rural Snow Edition.
The Service Road Gambit
Central Command directs her toward a service road on the neighboring property.
This could be the end….
If the gate is open…
If she can get down the lane…
If she can turn the truck around in the snow…
If the Chaos Goblins decide they are done with their rebellion…
Everyone on the cruise ship is holding their breath.
The gate?
Open.
That’s one miracle.
“Head toward the old barn.” Krystin directs
Grandma drives.
She sees them.
She jumps out and calls.
And what do these furry outlaws do?
They run to her.
Thrilled.
As if this entire operation was a coordinated field trip.
“Oh good! You found us! We were just expanding territorial jurisdiction!”
Natty is secured first.
Arthur, 160 pounds of snow-covered optimism, requires negotiation, but eventually he is loaded into the truck.
Victory.
The Cost of Victory
Except.
They have rolled in every patch of manure available.
Every.
Single.
One.
They now smell like compost with ambition.
The truck smells like regret and poor life choices.
Grandma is exhausted.
My parents are relieved.
The cruise ship continues sailing into the sunset.
And I remain here.
A responsible, compact, 50-pound farm executive.
Denied maritime access.
Managing morale.
Supervising from a warm straw throne.
Holding this farm together with dignity while the Chaos Goblins plot their next daylight uprising.
Snoutfully Yours,
🐽Squealexander Hamilton
Editor-in-Chief, Grounded with Nature News
Director of Emergency Field Operations
Advocate for Maritime Pig Inclusion
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