Pigs in the Garden

Here in Northern Michigan most gardeners are familiar with the many pests and predators that invade gardens. The list includes deer, opossum, raccoon, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, porcupine, skunk, cats and dogs. Add to that numerous insects and birds (turkies are a whole other story!), and you have an onslaught of nature ready and willing to eat fruit and flower, peck seeds out of the ground and peel bark off young saplings. Many (yes, I have) even have had an occasional bear tearing apart bird feeders and harvesting blueberry crops. It is a gardening disappointment and frustration and often a thrilling glimpse of nature.

Since man first set aside land for plant production, the boundaries were set for the war of who gets the crops. Garden battle plans passed from old gardener to young by word of mouth until Gutenberg invented the press. Since then, tomes have been written on the subject. Even with all today's accumulated knowledge, chemical and technological deterrents, there are no victories, only continuing battles.

You can plant only the deer or rabbit resistant plants, but what if your gardener's soul cries for Hosta, otherwise known as deer candy? You can net your small fruits and mentally prepare yourself for when some beautiful songbird you fed all winter dies snagged in its mesh. Animal persistence diminishes fear, fences weather and break, chemicals wear away, and technology fails. Just about the time you think you have won the war with one adversary, another invades your sacred ground and a new fight begins.

This said, there are certain bragging rights that come with each wild visitor: the most, the rarest, the best war story. Nothing, however, had prepared me for pigs.

The third fall in my garden, when most plants had already died back and bark mulch covered everything, two pigs wandered into the area. Having never been close to pigs, I wandered into the garden, too. They were about thirty inches tall, a naked, peachy color with ears flopping over their wary eyes. It was clear the way they stayed close they were friends, and not overly interested in making a new one. They avoided me. Old stories on the viciousness of wild pigs haunted the fringe of my thoughts, but neither of these two bore tusks, so I thought myself safe.

After seeing them in action, the thrill quickly wore off. I'd heard about rooting pigs, but never seen them. Those cute little snouts can dig deep and fast, pulling up whatever tasty porcine delicacies they come across. For a brief few minutes I envisioned a freezer full of bacon and pork chops. Good sense said these strays belonged to a neighbor and I chased them around, shooing them away from favorite plant locations. We found the owner and he came and fetched his escaped pigs.

Actually, he led them away with a bucket of feed. After their gourmand tour of my garden I didn't think they could be that hungry, but I guess that's why they call them pigs. The owner asked us to the future pig roast, but after meeting the guests of honor face to face, I don't know if I could enjoy the feast. On the bright side are the story rights: one eaten Hosta, twelve bucks, two eaten wild ginger, seven fifty each; pig tales--priceless, but I didn't get a photo.