Mr. Brownie is gone to The Bridge
Brownie the pig lived with us for four years, with his two brothers. He was good pig, and we loved him dearly, and when he got sick, we did the best we could for him, but of course in the end we lost him anyway.
The three of them were litter-mates, so they were really all the same age, but by behavior, you'd always have pegged him as the youngest. He wasn't the very, very best-behaved pig ever; he had a touch of the mischievous; he was actually very well-named. But aside from a little sniping with his brothers, he never hurt a soul. (OK, there was that one time he bit me, but I richly, richly had it coming -- did you know guinea pig teeth are SHARP?)
He was devastatingly cute; we used to joke that he could use the "power of cuteness" to make us give him more treats, or hypnotize us into forgetting that we were about to trim his claws or whatever. He was Abyssinian, so a lot of his hair was in tufty swirls, and on his cheeks he had little swirls of white (against chocolate brown) that looked just like little moustaches; it gave him a dashing air. And he had a notch on one ear-flap, where one of his brothers nicked him when he was young.
Pigs will squeak and chirp and wheek, depending on their moods -- some more than others. Mr. Brownie was never an especially vocal pig, but he had a noise he would make when he was chugging around investigating things: kind of a low-pitched chirp he'd make over and over, kind of "bork-bork-bork". He would make it when he was moving, and then stop when he stopped to sniff or nibble something, and then start up again when he moved on, almost like it was just the sound that his engine made when his wheels were turning.
He was never extremely cuddly, and didn't especially like to be petted or stroked, but we snuggled together many a chilly winter night: me on the couch, and him tucked into my armpit, between my t-shirt and my over-shirt, snoozing...
He was sick for a long time. It started with bladder stones, but as time went on, there were more and more medications: for pain, for infection, for his digestion, for his eye. He bore it all, with pretty good grace, for a little piglet: they come to trust us, and seem to understand that we're trying to help, even when they don't like what we're doing very much. He did get so used to being flipped on his back, to have various bits poked and prodded, that sometimes when we were done, he'd just lay there for a while, belly-side-up, in the crook of your arm, as though he were just relaxing, like a furry little man on a chaise-lounge.
He had good days and bad days; there were days he didn't do much but sleep, and other times he would putter around looking pretty cheerful -- attacking a tasty bunch of vegetables, or gnawing on paper balls or parts of his cardboard house.
Somehow, though, as we struggled on, he kept losing weight, and his various other systems seemed to go out of whack, and it was more and more of a struggle to get him to eat enough and drink enough, and more and more medications layered on top of each other, and it didn't really help. We did everything we could; our vets did everything they could; Mr. Brownie did everything HE could. The last couple of nights, I slept on the living room floor next to him so that he wouldn't be alone. Finally, he just got to the point where he wouldn't eat or drink at all, and it was clearly his time.
I wish I could explain better who he was and what he meant to me... He was a quirky, opinionated, fur-ball little spark of life. He was "his own pig", and he'd never let you forget it... But of course, I can't really capture it, the way he was to us.
He was a dear, sweet creature, and now he's... gone. And I miss him; I miss him so.
The three of them were litter-mates, so they were really all the same age, but by behavior, you'd always have pegged him as the youngest. He wasn't the very, very best-behaved pig ever; he had a touch of the mischievous; he was actually very well-named. But aside from a little sniping with his brothers, he never hurt a soul. (OK, there was that one time he bit me, but I richly, richly had it coming -- did you know guinea pig teeth are SHARP?)
He was devastatingly cute; we used to joke that he could use the "power of cuteness" to make us give him more treats, or hypnotize us into forgetting that we were about to trim his claws or whatever. He was Abyssinian, so a lot of his hair was in tufty swirls, and on his cheeks he had little swirls of white (against chocolate brown) that looked just like little moustaches; it gave him a dashing air. And he had a notch on one ear-flap, where one of his brothers nicked him when he was young.
Pigs will squeak and chirp and wheek, depending on their moods -- some more than others. Mr. Brownie was never an especially vocal pig, but he had a noise he would make when he was chugging around investigating things: kind of a low-pitched chirp he'd make over and over, kind of "bork-bork-bork". He would make it when he was moving, and then stop when he stopped to sniff or nibble something, and then start up again when he moved on, almost like it was just the sound that his engine made when his wheels were turning.
He was never extremely cuddly, and didn't especially like to be petted or stroked, but we snuggled together many a chilly winter night: me on the couch, and him tucked into my armpit, between my t-shirt and my over-shirt, snoozing...
He was sick for a long time. It started with bladder stones, but as time went on, there were more and more medications: for pain, for infection, for his digestion, for his eye. He bore it all, with pretty good grace, for a little piglet: they come to trust us, and seem to understand that we're trying to help, even when they don't like what we're doing very much. He did get so used to being flipped on his back, to have various bits poked and prodded, that sometimes when we were done, he'd just lay there for a while, belly-side-up, in the crook of your arm, as though he were just relaxing, like a furry little man on a chaise-lounge.
He had good days and bad days; there were days he didn't do much but sleep, and other times he would putter around looking pretty cheerful -- attacking a tasty bunch of vegetables, or gnawing on paper balls or parts of his cardboard house.
Somehow, though, as we struggled on, he kept losing weight, and his various other systems seemed to go out of whack, and it was more and more of a struggle to get him to eat enough and drink enough, and more and more medications layered on top of each other, and it didn't really help. We did everything we could; our vets did everything they could; Mr. Brownie did everything HE could. The last couple of nights, I slept on the living room floor next to him so that he wouldn't be alone. Finally, he just got to the point where he wouldn't eat or drink at all, and it was clearly his time.
I wish I could explain better who he was and what he meant to me... He was a quirky, opinionated, fur-ball little spark of life. He was "his own pig", and he'd never let you forget it... But of course, I can't really capture it, the way he was to us.
He was a dear, sweet creature, and now he's... gone. And I miss him; I miss him so.