Page 2 of Indiana Idealist
Mulling the cute name over in my mind, I mumble, “Charlotte… That was the spider, not the pig. What kind of a moron names their pig Charlotte?”
As if in answer to my question, my environmentalist zealot neighbor, Leo Sullivan, comes stalking up my driveway.
2
LEO
My teeth grit together as I march up Camille Ellis’s driveway. Of all the directions my ornery pot-bellied pig could have taken as she ran away, this has to be the worst.
The last thing I want to do tonight is deal with the smug woman, who has an unbothered attitude about the harmful fertilizer runoff from her golf course going directly into the stream that traverses my property. Since she chose to ignore my stern warning that she is destroying the stream’s ecosystem, I’m being forced to get an environmental lawyer involved to convince her to stop her careless pollution.
I would prefer to work things out calmly and rationally between the two of us, rather than going to court over it, but Camille refuses to accept responsibility for her business’s wrongdoings. Her willful ignorance is downright dangerous. I wish I could talk some sense into her, but my past attempts to reason with her have been either met with a patronizing attitude or completely ignored.
Once I get close enough to Camille’s front porch, I realize Charlotte is rolled over on her back getting a belly rub from the blasted woman.
That traitorous pig.If she wasn’t so darn adorable and loveable, I’d trade her in for a more conventional pet, like a dog. Dogs are loyal to their masters. Pigs will apparently share their affection with anyone.
But the truth is, I could never give up Charlotte. She’s the perfect pet––except for her newfound tendency to run away.
It annoys me to no end to see Charlotte and the woman hitting it off. Someone as selfish as Camille does not deserve the sweet pig’s attention.
As soon as I’m close enough for her to hear me, I call my pet’s name. Charlotte whirls her head around and looks at me with a guilty expression in her eyes. She’s smart enough to know she wasn’t supposed to come here, even though she is currently being rewarded with a belly rub.
Camille keeps scratching Charlotte, so the pig doesn’t come. She’s an affectionate animal, who loves human interaction. Of course, she isn’t going to give up that attention to come when she’s called––especially since she knows I’m annoyed with her.
Exasperated, I let out a huff of air before saying to the woman, “She’ll never leave if you don’t stop rubbing her.”
The woman pooches up her lush, pink lips as she responds to the pig, rather than me. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? You don’t want to go anywhere with that cranky, obnoxious man. I don’t blame you one bit.”
Openly glaring at Camille, I say, “She’s my pet, and she loves me.”
Camille’s smirk in my direction makes frustration with the entire situation race hot through my veins. Unsure why I feel the need to explain anything to the exasperating woman, I say, “Charlotte is a fantastic pig. She’s housetrained, she loves to snuggle, and she comes when she’s called––when she’s not being encouraged to ignore me.”
I mutter the last bit, but Camille must hear me because her fiery gaze snaps up to mine. I can tell she’s cooking up a snarky comeback, but suddenly her expression morphs into one of confusion. “Wait, housetrained? You keep a pig inside your house?!?”
At my brisk nod, she mumbles, “Why does that not surprise me.”
“They’re very clean animals,” I tell her, uncertain why I’m defending myself or Charlotte to her.
“Right,” she says in an overly snarky tone.
Refusing to be berated by this woman for a moment longer, I stomp up her porch steps and say in a stern voice, “Come on, Charlotte. It’s time to go home.”
Since the woman refuses to stop rubbing her, the pig once again ignores me. I stamp my foot in frustration at the entire scene.
I know better than to pick up Charlotte. She hates being picked up and would likely squeal like she was being tortured.
Unsure what else to do, I look at the woman and say firmly, “Stop scratching her belly.”
Camille gives me an expectant look and quirks an arched brow in my direction.
I know exactly what she wants, and it irks me to give in to her––even on this tiny thing. Narrowing my eyes into a stern glare, I practically spit out the word, “Please.”
After a final pat, Camille says, “Goodbye, Charlotte. Thanks for coming to visit me.”
Giving me a fake smile, Camille stands up and turns to head back inside. Over her shoulder she says to me, “You know, Charlotte was the spider who spun the web, not the pig.”
She’s not the first person to point this out to me. It’s tempting to defend myself by revealing that the pig was already named when I adopted her, but instead, I snap, “I know that, but she doesn’t exactly look like a Wilbur, does she?”
