A Piglet Called Truffle

by Helen Peters

  In the yard, Tom’s mum, Mel, switched off the car engine. Tom got out of the back seat slowly, holding a plastic carrying case with a wire grid at the front. His usually cheerful face looked tense and anxious.

  “They hate travelling,” he said. “They’ve burrowed into the hay and frozen with fright.”

  “Oh, poor things,” said Jasmine. She bent down and peered through the wire, but she couldn’t even see Snowy and Twiglet in the mound of hay.

  “They’ll be fine once they’re in a hutch again,” said Mel. “Hello, Jasmine, how are you? I hear you’re bringing up a pig.”

  “Yes,” said Jasmine. “She’s called Truffle.”

  “She’s the best pig in the world,” said Tom. Then he spoke softly into the carrying case. “And you’re the best guinea pigs in the world, aren’t you?” He turned to Jasmine. “I don’t want to offend them.”

  “Come and see their hutch,” said Jasmine.

  “Before you go, Jasmine,” said Mel, “we wanted to give you this.” She held out an envelope.

  “Oh, thank you,” said Jasmine, curious.

  “Open it,” said Tom. He looked excited.

  Jasmine opened the envelope. She stared in amazement. Inside were several bank notes.

  “Money?” she said. “For looking after the guinea pigs? Oh, no, you don’t have to pay me. Honestly, I want to look after them.”

  She held out the envelope to Mel, but Mel smiled and shook her head. “I know you’re not doing it for money,” she said, “but if we took them to a boarding kennels we’d have to pay, and we know you’ll look after them better than any boarding kennels would. Tom’s told us all about how you nursed Truffle back to life.”

  Jasmine was almost speechless. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you,” said Mel. “Tom adores his guinea pigs and we’re very grateful to you for having them. Now, I’m just going to pop into the house and say hello to your mum.”

  Jasmine’s mind was racing as she led the way through the gate and down the garden path. Money! Money of her own! Lots of money! And for looking after two adorable guinea pigs!

  By the time she had reached the lawn, her plan was formed.

  “I’ve got a new idea,” she said to Tom. “About what I’m going to do when I grow up.”

  “You don’t want to have the rescue centre any more?”

  “Oh, yes, I definitely do. But Mum and Dad said it will cost a lot of money, because you have to get the land and then feed all the animals. But now that’s all right, because I’m going to have a boarding kennels there, too, you see. So people will pay for me to look after their pets while they’re on holiday, and that money will pay to look after the rescued animals.”

  Tom looked impressed. “That’s a great idea.”

  “And your guinea pigs will be the first animals at my boarding kennels. I hope they like it here.”

  Chapter Ten

  A Fully-Trained Sniffer Pig

  “I’ve scrubbed out the coop that Blossom lived in when she was a chick,” Jasmine said, leading Tom across the garden. “It’s got a big run with it, too, see.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Tom. “Bigger than their hutch at home. Look, guineas, this is your holiday house. And Jasmine’s put some food in for you, too. Carrots and curly kale, your favourites.”

  He set the case down gently on the grass and unclipped the front. From the heap of hay came scuffling and rustling sounds.

  Jasmine lifted up the hinged wooden lid of the chicken coop. The inside was divided into two rooms by a wooden partition. Jasmine had covered the floor with wood shavings and filled the bedroom with fresh hay.

  Tom reached into the case and lifted out a bundle of snow-white fur with big brown eyes.

  “Hello, Snowy,” said Jasmine, taking him from Tom. “Oh, you’re so soft.”

  She could feel Snowy’s racing heartbeat under his thick soft fur. She stroked him gently. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “You’re going to be all right. You’ll have a lovely holiday here.”

  Tom took Snowy’s brother, Twiglet, from the case. He was ginger with black eyes. “Shall we put them in the hutch?” he said. “They probably need to get used to it.”

  Gently, they lowered the guinea pigs into the hutch, next to the food bowl. They stood there, frozen to the spot. Jasmine picked up a piece of carrot and held it out. They stayed frozen. Slowly, she moved the carrot right in front of Twiglet’s nose.

  Twiglet made a tiny movement and grabbed the end of the carrot. He scurried into the bedroom, the carrot clamped in his mouth. Then he dropped it on the shavings and began to nibble frantically.

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Tom. “If he’s eating, he must be happy.”

  Suddenly, Snowy unfroze and scuttled after his brother. He snatched up the piece of carrot from under Twiglet’s nose and disappeared into the pile of hay.

  Jasmine laughed. “Poor Twiglet! That’s so mean!”

  “They’re always doing that to each other,” said Tom. “Whichever one gets a piece of food first, the other one snatches it. But they don’t seem to mind. The first one just goes and gets another piece. I think it’s a game. You just have to make sure you always give them two of everything.”

  Sure enough, Twiglet approached the food again, snuffled around and found another piece of carrot. He grabbed it and ran back to the bedroom.

  “I’m glad you’ve got two of them,” said Jasmine. “It must be very lonely for them if there’s only one.”

  “In Switzerland it’s illegal to keep only one,” said Tom.

  “Is it really?”

  “It’s because they’re social animals. They say it’s cruel to keep one on its own. Same with rabbits.”

  “That’s a good law,” said Jasmine. “I like Switzerland.”

  “They definitely like being together,” said Tom. “They sleep next to each other, and they always go out in their run together. And they wrestle, too.”

  “Wrestle?”

  “Yes, it’s so funny. They run about and one of them jumps on top of the other and they wrestle. They don’t hurt each other. It’s just play-fighting. I gave them a ball, too, but they never play with it.”

  The guinea pigs had burrowed into the hay and were invisible now. Munching and crunching sounds came from the hay. Tom gently lowered the hinged lid of the hutch.

  “Let’s play fetch with Truffle,” said Jasmine. She took the battered tennis ball from her pocket.

  Tom looked at it.

  “Would Truffle like the guinea pigs’ ball?” he asked.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Like I said, they never play with it. I think it’s too big for them. I’ll get them a ping-pong ball instead.”

  “OK, then. Thanks. Truffle’s wrecked this one already.”

  “Has your dad changed his mind yet?” asked Tom, as they walked to the orchard. “About you keeping Truffle?”

  “No,” said Jasmine, gloomily. “He just says she might be cute now but what happens when she’s fully grown? He says he’s not a pig farmer and he can’t keep a full-sized pig about the place doing nothing and ruining the grass and costing a fortune to feed.”

  “Ssh,” said Tom. “She’ll hear you.”

  Truffle was running across the orchard to greet them. Tom held out the ball. “Here, Truffle. A present for you.”

  Truffle sniffed at the ball. Tom dropped it on the ground. Truffle nuzzled it with her snout, grunting and snuffling. She nudged it and rolled it over, smelling every millimetre of its surface.

  “Aren’t pigs’ snouts amazing?” said Jasmine. “They have millions of scent receptors, even more than dogs. And their snouts are really hard under the skin, so they can use them for digging and moving things around as well as smelling stuff.”

  “She’s really sniffing that,” said Tom. “She must be able to smell the guinea pigs on it.”

  “She definitely can,” said Jasmine. Then she drew in her breath. “I
know! I’m going to train Truffle as a sniffer pig!”

  “A sniffer pig?”

  “They do exist. I’ve read about it. They can be trained just like the sniffer dogs the police use to track down criminals and things.”

  “But how do you train them?”

  “I’ve watched loads of stuff about training sniffer dogs,” said Jasmine. “You start by just playing with the object you want her to find. We’ll play fetch with that ball, like we do already.”

  Tom picked up the ball and laughed. “Ugh, it’s covered in slobber.”

  He lifted the ball behind his head. Truffle was instantly alert, her body still, her eyes focused on the ball in Tom’s hand.

  “Fetch!” called Tom, throwing the ball across the orchard. Truffle bounded across the grass and raced back to the children, the ball in her mouth, her tail wriggling excitedly.

  “Good girl,” said Tom, reaching out to pat her.

  “Wait,” said Jasmine. “Sit, Truffle.”

  Truffle stood looking at her.

  “Truffle, sit.”

  Jasmine put her hand on Truffle’s back. Truffle sat, looking up at her expectantly.

  “Good pig,” said Jasmine, crouching down and scratching her between the ears. “Good pig.”

  Tom looked from Truffle to Jasmine, wide-eyed. “Wow. How did you train her to sit?”

  “Same as a dog,” said Jasmine. “Pigs are just as clever as dogs so there’s no reason why you can’t train them in the same way.”

  After they had played a few more games of fetch, Jasmine said, “Now she’s ready for the next stage. That’s where we teach her to play hide-and-seek, only by using smell instead of sight. It’s what pigs do naturally. We’re just training her to do it with this object. Come, Truffle.”

  Truffle trotted along with them to a heap of dead leaves in the corner of the orchard.

  “First, we let her see us hide the ball,” said Jasmine. “Here, Truffle.”

  She held out the ball. Truffle made as if to grab it, but Jasmine buried the ball in the leaves.

  “Find it!” she said. She turned to Tom. “That’s the command we’re teaching her. Every time we say, ‘Find it!’ she has to search for the ball. Then we reward her.”

  “With food?”

  “No, with praise and play. That’s the best way to reward sniffer dogs – or sniffer pigs. It’s what they like most.”

  Truffle was snuffling in the leaves, shifting the pile about with her snout. Now she uncovered the ball and picked it up.

  “Good pig!” said Jasmine. “Good pig!” She took the ball and scratched Truffle along her belly. The little piglet flopped over, grunting with pleasure.

  Tom laughed. “It’s amazing, all her different grunts and squeals. It’s like she’s really talking.”

  “Of course she’s talking,” said Jasmine. “Good pig, Truffle. Now watch this.”

  She hid the ball under the leaves again and gave the command. “Find it!”

  Truffle found it quickly this time, pulling it out of the heap and shaking off the dry brown leaves that had stuck to her face.

  “She’s a quick learner,” said Tom, as he scratched the pig’s belly.

  “Yes, it won’t take long to train her.”

  “So what’s the next stage?”

  “One of us holds her and the other one hides the ball without her seeing, so she has to find it using only her sense of smell. We hide it somewhere close at first, and then gradually make it harder. You wait. By the time you come back from Cornwall, I’ll have a fully trained sniffer pig. Scotland Yard will be begging me for her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  If She’s Chasing the Chickens…

  Mum was handing plates of pasta to Jasmine and Tom for lunch when her phone rang. She went into the hall to answer it. When she returned, she said, “I’ve got to go and see a horse at Turner’s. Will you two be all right? Ella’s upstairs if you need her. Daddy’s out with the calves. OK?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Jasmine assured her.

  “Ella’s the best childminder,” said Tom, as Jasmine’s mum drove out of the yard. “She wouldn’t notice if we burned the house down.”

  “No, she’d probably just look up from her books as the flames were licking the edge of her desk,” said Jasmine, “and think it was getting nice and warm in her room.”

  “And then—”

  Jasmine grabbed his arm. “Sshh. What was that?”

  Piercing squeals and shrieks were coming from somewhere outside. Tom and Jasmine looked at each other in alarm.

  “It’s Truffle,” said Jasmine, jumping up from the table. “Something bad’s happening. She’s never squealed like that before.”

  They ran into the scullery and shoved their feet into their wellingtons. In the middle of tugging on her left boot, Jasmine froze.

  Truffle’s shrieking had drowned out every other sound. But now Jasmine heard something else. The panicked squawking of the hens.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped. “If she’s chasing the chickens…”

  She didn’t dare finish that sentence. If Truffle had escaped from the orchard and was chasing the chickens, Dad would send her to market without a second thought, and nothing Jasmine could say would change his mind.

  She raced outside. A glance over the orchard fence showed her that Truffle had not escaped into the yard. She was still in the orchard, squealing fit to burst, her front trotters planted against the fence.

  Something was very wrong.

  In the yard, the chickens were running around in panicked circles, flapping their wings and squawking, some of them flapping up into the low branches of the trees.

  Was it Truffle’s shrieks that had made them panic? Or was Truffle warning the hens?

  Jasmine tugged back the bolt on the garden gate and she and Tom raced into the yard, making the hens panic even more.

  “Look!” yelled Jasmine, pointing to the corner of the cowshed.

  Slinking off around the side of the building was a huge fox. And in its mouth was a hen.

  The hen hung limply from the fox’s jaws. Jasmine couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. Foxes often snatched their prey alive and killed it later.

  “NO!” she yelled. “Put that down, you horrible creature!”

  If she could get the fox to drop the hen, she might be in time to save her. She raced after it, slowing only to pick up a rusty old piece of pipe by the cowshed wall. She flung the pipe at the animal. To her surprise and satisfaction, it struck the fox’s backside. The fox yelped and sped up, Jasmine chasing it, still shouting.

  The fox was outstripping her easily now, but Jasmine knew it couldn’t keep up that pace with a chicken dangling from its mouth.

  Sure enough, after a few more seconds, it dropped the hen, increased its stride and was gone through the hedge and up into the next field.

  Jasmine tore across the bumpy ground, stumbling in the ruts, the clay soil sticking to her boots, until she reached the bundle of feathers dumped on the wet grass.

  Sometimes a chicken taken in this way was merely stunned. Sometimes it would get up and walk away, dazed but unharmed. But Jasmine knew, from the way this one was lying, that she was dead.

  It wasn’t until she bent down over the body, though, that she recognised the hen.

  It was Blossom.

  Chapter Twelve

  That Wind’s Getting Up

  Everyone told Jasmine that Blossom had had a good life, that she had been very lucky to be loved so much, and that her death was quick and painless. But none of that consoled Jasmine in the slightest. Blossom would have lived for many more years, she was sure, if that horrible fox hadn’t killed her. And of course she had suffered.

  Whenever Jasmine thought of the terror poor Blossom must have felt when that fox sank its snarling teeth into her and carried her off across the field, she started sobbing all over again.

  Her only comfort was her animals. She spent hours every day cuddling the guinea pigs and training
Truffle. And Truffle was a very quick learner. After a week of daily training, Jasmine could shut her in the kennel while she hid the guinea pigs’ tennis ball anywhere in the orchard. Then she would let Truffle out and on the command, “Find it!” she could sniff out the ball wherever Jasmine had hidden it.

  She took her for walks across the field and up the farm road, too, on Bracken’s old collar and lead. Truffle trotted along beside her just like an obedient dog, and she was a very good listener. One day, they walked up to the woods behind the farm and cut sprigs of holly to decorate the living room.

  “Aren’t they beautiful, Truffle,” said Jasmine, as she arranged holly sprigs in a jam jar to put on Blossom’s grave, “with those shiny dark leaves and scarlet berries.”

  “What would you like for Christmas?” Mum and Dad kept asking her. And Jasmine always gave the same answer.

  “I want to keep Truffle.”

  Her parents would raise their eyebrows and Mum would take a deep breath and say, “I know you do, Jasmine. But since that isn’t possible, what else would you like?”

  To keep her parents happy, Jasmine suggested a few little things. But really, the only thing she wanted was to keep her pig.

  As it drew closer and closer to Christmas, though, Jasmine couldn’t help getting excited. She helped Mum bake mince pies and she helped Dad decorate the hall and living room, and the house started to feel very Christmassy indeed.

  And finally it was Christmas Eve, and time to do the one thing they always saved until last. Straight after breakfast, Jasmine, Manu and even Ella climbed into the open back of Dad’s pick-up truck and bumped across the fields to the little Christmas tree plantation next to the wood.

  Several years ago, Dad had experimented with growing Christmas trees to sell. The soil hadn’t been right and the experiment wasn’t a success, but a few trees had survived.