When I got the news that I'd be visiting a hog farm in Iowa, I felt like I was going home.
I'd worked with a lovely sow named Felicity during a two-year stint at Animal Planet. Felicity was a real pro and would have been well within her rights to complain about my constantly grabbing and petting her. She was just so sweet I couldn't resist. (She bit my thumb once. Her trainer, Cathy, was shocked and rushed over with hydrogen peroxide, but no skin was broken. Felicity was either playing with me — or warning me to keep it professional.)
This time I was going to learn the proper way of holding and handling a piglet — something stumping politicians would have to learn, if they hadn't already, because commingling with livestock is a de rigueur photo op in Iowa. (Fred Thompson held a piglet at the Iowa State Fair in August and looked pretty good doing it. Then again, he is an actor.)
All Things Considered producer Brendan Banaszak picked me up at the Des Moines airport, and we drove 75 miles west to the small town of Bridgewater in Adair County. I was ravenous, so we stopped on the way at a diner for a late breakfast. Halfway through my eggs and bacon I was overcome with guilt — then just kept eating, because I was so hungry. True Iowans conquer this guilt all the time.
Reggie and Virgine Martin's hog farm has been in Reggie's family for four generations — more than 110 years. They raise between 120 and 170 pigs a year. That's a relatively small number compared with larger, concentrated animal feeding operations, where thousands of pigs and other livestock are confined, often under harsh circumstances.
The pen at the Martins' farm is open enough for the boars and sows to roam. Some are up to 700 pounds — way more than Felicity. These animals seemed not at all anxious.
But I wanted to go inside the house to warm up and meet the piglet. Virgine thought I was kidding when I suggested that we all — piglet included — sit down in their living room.
Instead, Virgine led me into the heated garage, where I sat down opposite Reggie, who had our interview's main attraction on his lap.
It was some piglet. The one-month-old was ready for his close-up: a nice pink complexion, no noticeable bites or scratches, a proud snout — I'm not much for small noses or snouts — and very clean, refined and tapered hooves. If pigs could tickle the ivories, you'd say this piglet had piano hooves.
He was cradled peacefully in Reggie's arms when the interview began.
A few minutes into our interview — after Virgine named the piglet Mo — Reggie transferred custody of him to my lap. Virgine offered to lay a blanket down first, but I demurred. Now that he'd taken on my name, he was sort of like family.
Also, I wanted to prove to myself that I had the grit to handle the worst possible scenario without any special protection. If I am ever going to run for office, I figured, I needed to start establishing my "regular folks" bona fides now.
I'm happy to report that there was no action on that end, just a lot of soft grunting — according to Reggie, a sign of approval — punctuated by squeals of what I hope was joy.
The pig felt so good in my lap — like a puppy. Turns out, there was no special way to hold him. As long as he was supported, his tail was free to dangle, and I kept scratching him between the ears, he was fine. He even fell asleep at one point. This pig was really cute.
When I was seized with the urge to kiss the pig, Virgine first made it clear that hog farmers don't kiss their pigs. But she gave her blessing. (I think she might have been a little weirded out by the whole thing. Sorry, but the heart wants what it wants.) I was careful to plant my kiss on the top of the pig's head and nowhere near his snout because, after all, I'd just eaten bacon.
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