by Jo Bailey
‘Now!’ Darren shouted to the boys.
Sam picked the weeing piglet up and scrambled across to the decking. Darren was hot on his heels with the grapes. As soon as Chester had finished his business, Darren gave Sam the nod.
‘Sam, give Chester a grape,’ he instructed.
Sam held out the green oval fruit on the palm of his hand. You didn’t need to tell Chester twice; he had hoovered it up before we had time to blink.
‘Good boy,’ I praised our piglet. His pink nose was twitching furiously as he sniffed the air to see if there was more where that came from.
And that’s how we house-trained our micro pig.
Sam loved every second of the exercise. He always took comfort from routine and the predictability of knowing grape and praise came after weeing put him at ease, which in turn made Chester happy. Amazingly, Chester was house-trained within just a few weeks.
Sam even got the hang of saying ‘Good boy, Chester,’ which was great progress as he still really struggled with his language. His sentences were usually only a few words long, at best, and they would not necessarily be in the right order or grammatically correct.
Darren felt happier leaving us for the rigs knowing Chester wouldn’t be damaging the landlord’s floorboards any more. It was harder than usual kissing him goodbye because life seemed so incredibly positive at present. I wanted him to share in all that.
I promised I’d keep him updated on all the latest pig news as I waved him off at Exeter airport. He was heading for Rio de Janeiro this time. He pretended that he wasn’t that bothered about a progress report – but I could tell he secretly couldn’t wait to find out what Chester had been up to next. I wondered if he was going to tell all the lads on the rig that he’d got a mini pig rather than a dog as a pet!
Chester was such a clever little thing; in fact I’d underestimated quite how smart he was. Sam and Will were playing with him in the garden one day not long after Darren had left when Will noticed some suspicious behaviour.
‘Mum!’ he yelled out.
I peered over the balcony of the wooden decking.
‘When Chester goes to wee, he doesn’t really wee!’ Will pointed at the pig, just as Sam was feeding Chester another grape.
What does he mean? Is Chester holding in his wee? I went to investigate.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out what Will meant. After only about five minutes, Chester squatted on the grass – only nothing came out. Nevertheless, he then raced over to Sam for his reward. The cheeky devil! Chester was pretending to go to the toilet so he could get extra grapes.
I watched him do it again. It was hysterical. Our pig had hoodwinked us!
‘Sam, honey, don’t feed him any more grapes or he’ll get a sore tummy,’ I told my son. Goodness knows how many extra grapes Chester had scrounged in the last week or so. I thought we’d got through an awful lot, I thought to myself as I examined the near-empty punnet.
There was nothing I could do about it, other than make the boys aware of Chester’s fake weeing and tell them they should reward him only when he did the real deal. I hadn’t anticipated we would have such a genius on our hands!
It wasn’t all bad, though . . . it made Sam giggle. And Chester’s brains and love of grapes also meant we were able to teach him much more than simply how to wee outside. The boys took it upon themselves to teach Chester how to sit, stay and roll over, using the same reward system. It was their idea to have these tricks ready as a surprise for Darren when he came back from Rio.
Of course, I gave them a helping hand, but only at the beginning.
‘Sit, Chester.’ I pushed his tiny bum to the grass. He sat on his haunches, gazing up at me, Sam and Will through his long ginger eyelashes.
‘Good boy.’ I ruffled his mop of hair, just as you would a dog, and then fed him a grape. With one inhalation the fruit had disappeared from my hand and all that was left was a little trail of slime.
Once the boys got the idea, they took it in turns to teach him tricks. I limited them to half a punnet of grapes per session as I didn’t want Chester getting an upset tummy; apart from the fact that I would have hated to see him suffer, I’d just started to enjoy not clearing up after him!
So first came the sitting and then they taught him to stay – and then Sam accidentally taught Chester to moonwalk.
Sam was holding a grape above Chester’s head and as he took a step backwards, he moved the grape down Chester’s back towards his tail. Instead of the pig turning his body around to reach the grape, Chester decided to reverse himself in a wriggling motion, taking a sliding step backwards as he tried to keep the grape in line with his nose.
‘Mummy!’ Sam screamed with delight.
I watched in awe as Sam repeated the motion. Sam took one step back holding the grape at Chester’s eye level and then the micro pig put himself in reverse, sliding his trotters in a slick Michael Jackson-esque moonwalk.
It was just too much. If only I’d had my camcorder! In fact I often wished I had a camcorder on Chester all the time as he was doing so many funny things.
‘Darren will love this!’ I enthused, praising Sam for invoking the King of Pop’s famous moves.
Every day with our pet pig brought a new surprise. Some were better than others, though. After three weeks, Chester started to show his true colours. When you think of a pig, you imagine oinking, grunting, squealing and squeaking noises. You don’t think ‘non-stop ear-splitting squeal that is so loud the entire village can hear it’.
Our discovery was made one evening as I lifted Chester up to bring him from the garden into the living room (our upside-down barn meant he couldn’t climb the decking stairs by himself). As his trotters left the ground, he started yelling – a high-pitched squeal which sounded like a screaming firework – and carried on and on until I’d put him down.
‘What is wrong with you?’ I said to the piglet. I thought maybe he was unwell at first. Perhaps he had eaten too many grapes and his tummy had hurt when I’d touched it.
Oh no: it turned out that it was Chester’s new party trick. From that moment on, whenever anyone tried to pick him up, including Sam, he squealed in excitement. The second he felt your hands under his tummy he started and he would go on, and on, until you put him down. It was almost as if once he had settled into our house – once he knew he had us wrapped around his trotters – he started pushing the boundaries.
If Chester was tired he wouldn’t squeal – then he was happy to jump on the sofa and lie on us. But if he was awake, Chester wanted to walk around the house and garden undisturbed. Anything we did to get in the way of that would set him off squealing like a noisy firework. I suppose it was a bit like Sam and his drawing – Chester was so into what he was doing he didn’t want anyone to distract him. Of course, the boys found it hysterical, and would pick Chester up just to hear him squeal.
I was also worried what the neighbours thought. I didn’t want them to be upset with Chester, and the last thing I needed was the landlord knocking on the door.
‘What am I going to do?’ I turned as always to Darren for advice.
There was a funny sound on the line as I waited for his words of wisdom: he was trying to stifle his laughter on the other end of the phone.
‘It’s not funny!’ I said, smiling despite myself.
Darren reminded me that our landlord lived up north – he’d originally bought our barn as a holiday home for himself before renting it out – and with a bit of luck he wouldn’t find the time to come down and pay us a visit. I’d been very careful about cleaning up after Chester so I didn’t need to worry about damage to the property; it was just the noise that was hard to contain. I’ll just have to find ways around picking the pig up, I decided. I reassured myself that at least we were living in an isolated place, so we only had two sets of neighbours, which lessened the collateral damage.
Or so I thought.
The following week, Darren arrived back home (he was working one month on, one month off the rig) a
nd took us to the local pub in Ugborough for Sunday lunch. Ugborough was a picturesque tourist spot thanks to its square in the heart of the village. It also had a huge old church, which dated back to 1112, and a post office. The Ship Inn was a beautiful old white building at the top of the hill; the pub and the post office were, of course, the hubs of the village gossip.
It was a warm spring day so we decided to have our food in the beer garden. As usual when we were out, Chester was locked in the living room. We had barricaded the stairs to the bedrooms with a bookshelf so he wouldn’t tumble down.
Darren and I had been to The Ship a number of times since I’d moved to Devon so we knew the barman, Paul, well enough for him to let us in on the village gossip. He was a young chap with a cheeky dimpled grin and dark-brown hair. He came outside to take our order. We’d told him about Chester when we first got our pet pig and he now told us what everyone had been gossiping about.
‘People in the pub have been asking if there is a pig in the village,’ he smirked, giving us a knowing look.
My mouth dropped open. I looked at Darren in horror. Surely Chester’s squeals couldn’t be heard all the way up the hill? But they had been.
‘Everyone’s been saying they can hear a pig squealing!’
Will started sniggering, Sam’s eyes were wide as saucers at the mention of Chester and Darren was chuckling under his breath – but I didn’t find it all quite so funny. It was easier for Darren as he wasn’t there most of the time and didn’t have to deal with any upset locals.
‘It’s not funny,’ I insisted.
‘It is kind of funny.’ He couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing, as did Paul, Sam and Will. So we were now famous in the village for having a screaming micro pig; I guess there are worse things to be known for.
Perhaps Sam picked up on the suggestion that people might have been complaining about Chester, for he suddenly seemed to be overcome with pride and protectiveness as he leapt up from the picnic bench, almost knocking over the salt and pepper pots.
‘Chester!’ he shouted.
Paul realised what he was getting at.
‘Your pig is called Chester, is he?’ he asked in his thick Devonshire accent.
Sam nodded with his hands on his hips, as he wordlessly defended his pig.
‘Well, I’ll make sure everyone knows.’ He gave Sam a friendly wink.
I beamed at my boy: I was incredibly proud of my son for finding the confidence to stand up for his friend. Six months ago he’d been having a meltdown about going to Pennywell Farm – he’d come so far!
Darren helped me to see the good in the situation and by the end of the Sunday roast we were giggling about how famous our pig was and how far the word would spread about him. I joked that Chester would become so famous the BBC would want to film him.
Meanwhile Sam was, of course, thinking about Chester and what he could do for him – I caught him smuggling a Yorkshire pudding from the pub in a napkin.
‘Got you!’ I surprised Sam with a big cuddle. He smiled sheepishly as he tucked his treat for Chester into his lap. It was heart-warming to see Sam thinking about another creature’s wellbeing and it reinforced how much being with Chester was helping him. I reminded myself to tell Lynda all about it at school on Monday.
But even though Sam was showing happiness and love for Chester at home, he was yet to express anything similar in the classroom. His mind had somehow compartmentalised the two settings and never the twain shall meet. Nonetheless, Lynda Russell and the CAIRB teaching assistants often relayed all the funny pig stories I’d documented in the home link diary to the other children, bringing Chester to life in the classroom in the hope that all the children, including Sam, would engage with him.
There was one little boy in Sam’s class who had particularly enjoyed hearing the stories about Chester. It came to light that he and Sam shared a passion for Ben 10. One day, when this particular little boy was having a bad day, Sam picked up on his mood and went out of his way to cheer him up. Sam drew some Ben 10 characters, which Lynda then helped him to cut out so that they could stick them on the boy’s work station. It was a small gesture, but it made a difference, and I was delighted when Lynda told me about what Sam had done.
Lynda took a breath as she prepared to tell me something else incredibly important: ‘I’ve never seen any other child on the CAIRB look after another one in such a way before.’
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked down at my son. Sam had had a lot to deal with himself but he’d still found room in his heart to love others.
There was no doubt in my mind that that was thanks to Chester.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cheese and Swine Party
THAT SUMMER OF 2009 was a glorious one. Not only was Sam doing brilliantly, but the brighter weather was good for us all. Chester especially enjoyed being outdoors a lot, running about the garden with Will and Sam as one sunny day followed another. Sam often fed his pet pig ice pops to keep him cool; the orange-flavoured ones were Chester’s favourite!
One weekend in June, I arranged a little get-together in our garden for family, friends and neighbours. With the move to England having been such a rush and then the regularity of Sam’s meltdowns when he’d started at Manor Primary, I had never had the chance to have a house-warming party. Better late than never!
My mum, my sister and her boyfriend Simon would be coming over and I couldn’t wait for Sam and Will to be reunited with their cousins Tom and Dan – it had been a bit of a disaster the last time they’d met and I was hoping this visit would go a lot more smoothly. Best of all, however, Darren was home from the rigs.
Chester was at the door waiting to greet us when I brought Darren home from the airport. Our pig’s snout lifted in the air, twitching wildly as he remembered from the scent of him who Darren was. Pigs have terrible eyesight; they are led by their noses instead. I glanced at Darren to see he was smiling. That was one of the great things about Chester – one look at his smiley little ginger face always put a smile on your own.
And then Darren said something a little disturbing.
‘Hasn’t he grown!’ he exclaimed.
Chester was five months old and had more than doubled in size since we’d first seen him. Of course, he was always going to get bigger, to the size of a Cocker Spaniel in fact, but Darren noticed that there was a big difference in Chester’s size since he had last been at home. Naturally the change was much more evident to Darren as he’d not seen Chester for a while, whereas I saw him every day.
‘He wasn’t going to stay a baby forever,’ I reminded Darren.
Darren furrowed his brow and, for a moment, he had the same look in his eye that Neil, our neighbour, had first given Chester when he’d seen him waddling around the paddling pool. It was an ‘I’m not sure about this pig’ expression.
‘Leave my pig alone,’ I joked, making my way to the kitchen to prepare us some lunch. But Darren had sown a seed of doubt. Was Chester growing faster than should be expected?
The day of the party dawned bright and beautiful. I welcomed my sister with open arms, glad to be reunited. Sarah and her boys hadn’t met Chester yet and I wondered what they would make of our ginger micro pig. Her reaction was really to be expected.
‘Oh, he’s adorable!’ Sarah hooted, picking him up in her arms before I had a chance to explain . . .
Chester squealed, of course. Loudly! Dan and Tom clamped their hands over their ears while Sam and Will chuckled. The squealing wasn’t ideal, but it had become manageable. Chester just liked to make sure everyone knew he was around.
I had to admit, occasional squeals aside, Chester had been the perfect pet since we’d got him three months before. I couldn’t wait to show him off to all the party guests, especially to the friends we had made in the village. Part of me was relishing the opportunity to squash any gossip that might have been circulating about his vocal acrobatics. I knew that, as soon as they clapped eyes on our angelic pig, they would never
be able to say a bad word against him again.
Famous last words.
I’d spent a lot of time planning the party as we were hosting around twenty-five people. I’d even hired some caterers to lay on a spread of food, borrowed a gazebo from someone in the village and paid a magician to come and keep the children entertained. Sam and Will helped me set up the table and chairs in the garden. I covered our long wooden dining table in a white cloth and bunched all the champagne flutes together at one end: it was going to be a real celebration.
I really wanted everyone to have fun – it was my way of thanking all my loved ones for supporting me through all the difficult times of the past few years. It was also an anniversary of sorts, for it was almost exactly two years since Darren had come into our lives and I wanted to celebrate him. I had an awful lot to thank him for. He’d walked into the role of ‘dad’ without a second thought about Sam’s condition. He’d offered to help us financially. He’d pulled me out of the deep depression I’d been slipping into when we’d first met and he did it all with a smile on his face, a can-do attitude and that kind, caring manner that I had grown to love.
It was such a special occasion that I’d bought the boys matching crisp white shirts and beige chinos with matching waistcoats for them to wear at the party. It was the first time I’d really made a thing of getting them dressed up and I felt like the proudest mum in the world as I got them ready.
But then Sam had a bit of a wobble. Even though I’d prepped him for the party with a storybook, he didn’t like the idea of so many people being in his house. Sam has always struggled to look people in the eye or be in the spotlight. People on the autistic spectrum experience the world more intensely than others, so they often try to lessen the intensity of their surroundings by seeking less contact with people, less sensory stimulation, or by hiding somewhere that is safe and familiar. The idea of people invading his home, all of them with eyes that Sam wanted to avoid, was too much.
It’s not for nothing that people say ‘eyes are the window to the soul’. The human brain is wired to find eyes stimulating. Which means that some autistic brains find eye contact too much – a double dose of intensity. Trying to make sense of words and read facial expressions at the same time is extremely difficult for people on the spectrum. By not looking at someone’s face, Sam reduces the task to just having to understand and process the language. But sometimes even that is too much – just as it was at this moment, as I tried to reassure him before the guests arrived.
