Go Figure: My Spirit Animal is a Pig

I distinctly remember getting a poop-brown t-shirt with a pepto-bismol colored pig on the front with the words “what’s shakin bacon?” emblazoned across the front for my twelfth birthday. I can assure you that in six grade it wasn’t worn ironically nor was it a random party gift from my sixth grade best friend. Upon reflection I realized that bacon was my nickname. Mind you this was before the savory bacon craze hit every cupcake and donut shop or was added to every item on a  pub-style menu, it was simply a breakfast side that I enjoyed as much as the next person. The origin of this nickname is lost on me but I am fairly confident it wasn’t because of my snug nose or somewhat porky thighs. I probably snorted as I laughed once in the hallway or something and it stuck the way all good nicknames do.

Luckily it didn’t stick for too long and it was long forgotten by the time high school rolled around and me and that friend parted ways but thank my nostalgic self because I have the front of that t-shirt cut out and in a memory box somewhere under my bed.  I am reminded of this parcel after taking a BuzzFeed quiz which claimed to determine my “spirit animal” something I hadn’t put much thought into previously. Being a fan of any quiz or survey in general I put way too much time and thought into each question and admittedly disagreed with the results. Taking it further than necessary in my period of unemployment I spent the rest of the day searching for my true spirit animal.

I didn’t go scouring old copies of Zoobooks or National Geographic or  anything but I scanned my memory bank of exotic and domestic animals until I felt I found something that embodied me. Many people fixate on common things like a cat or dog, many have a thing for a giraffe, manatee, or alligator and another group of flighty individuals who feel they were birds in another life but none of these choices were fitting. I thought of some weird things: an aardvark, a slow loris, a lizard, or perhaps an antelope but it wasn’t until I thought of a porcupine did the fire alarms in my central nervous system go off. No my inner animal is not a porcupine, but porky-pine is the name of the pig I want to adopt at some point in my life.

Yes, I am a pig. I don’t mean those little teacup things you see wearing rainboots on the internet (they are darn cute though) but a full bellied, hairy, potbelly pig. If I could pick I’d be a clean pink one with pristine black spots but I’m going for more of a personality comparison here anyway. The same way that I learned that teacup or miniature pigs are really just the unhealthy runts that are undernourished and underfed, I also learned what an astute breed pigs were.

There is an old saying that when you walk in your front door after a long day of work your dog will look up to you like you’re the king of the world, your cat will look down to you like you just walked into their castle but a pig will look right out you and greet you with a “what’s up?” as if you are their best friend. When it comes down to it, pigs are hypoallergenic and agree with everyone, are good for the environment and your house as they are like a compost machine eating anything and everything, are smart, and they are incredibly loyal creatures.

Call me crazy but you ask anyone what kind of friend I am and you will see the similarities between me and this nasally breed. I love that old saying because from an outside perspective every pet appears to rely on its owner when really those relationships vary on personality, breed, and the characteristics of the household. From the outside of my friendships the perspective tends to be skewed as well. Katie Heaney describes them as “lighthouses” and I call them “shiny” but maybe you call them Serena’s modeled after Blake Lively’s former character, regardless I tend to make friends with these shiny characters who are the voice of the party, outgoing, lovable, leaders and I may just look like a sidekick; like the puppy at their heels. On the flip side I’m also befriending broken characters who are flaw-ridden but beautiful who I often remind that I would never and could never look down on. In every single one of my relationships I am neither canine or feline, I’m all pig. I get what I give in my friendships. As a math person, I am ever so found of the equal sign.

What you can’t see from the outside is how shiny people need advice too. Yes it’s an honor to be best friends with a shiny person how they can have anyone they want but think that just means their friends are everything they are not and since “shiny” means in no-way perfect, this too is an honor. As for someone who I would look down on? Why would you be friends with anyone who you would think is less of you? That subject is mute. If you are my friend you are my equal. There is no < or > sign in my world. Ironic I know, that the girl who is afraid to look anyone in the eye has the spirit of an animal who looks anyone eye-to-eye. Regardless of my physical woes,  the potbelly pig is the perfect representation of my soul. Not afraid to have some mud between my toes, a big fan of food, and are highly intelligent. With our shared independence, sensitive skin, and a highly agreeable attitude my only farce is how I hadn’t drawn this conclusion. Past this, my only remaining question is whether I name my future pig Porky-pine, Hogwarts, or Pigfarts (shout out to team StarKid).

There is Chocolate on Everything I Own

If God hadn’t intended for chocolate to be messy, he wouldn’t have built me to like it so much.

If your life is anything like mine, there will come a day when your parents turn their back on everything they stood for despite all your begging and pleading growing up and they adopt a pet in response to their new-found empty nest syndrome. Now I am a huge fan of the zoo or even visiting a farm for the day and can watch TooCute! or Dogs101 on Animal Planet all day but that is where my love for animals ends. Now you can judge me for wanting a Simba-esque lion cub or a baby brown bear cub as a pet and admiring all gods furry creatures from afar but the cold truth is that kittens have claws and if I refuse to tweeze my eyebrows or pick a painful splinter from the heel of my foot I won’t voluntarily live through a similar experience thanks to this “cuddly creature.” My wildest fantasies include my dream home, a family of five and a ninety pound potbelly pig named either Porkypine, Hogwarts, or Pigfarts (shout out to my Potterheads and Starkids out there) but a part of me knows that this would never happen and my fish-killing curse means that my children will grow up as I did, raising their hands for having “no pets” as their teacher takes a survey in a second-grade introductory lesson on bar graphs.

Nonetheless, I found myself standing outside my front door one Thanksgiving break fearing the creature my parents now call “their baby.” The furry white fuzz-ball greeted me with the dog-equivalent of a hug at the front door and I have been his best friend ever since. My dancing partner/circus clown as he walks on his hind-legs for minutes at a time, sleeps at my feet, snuggles with me on the couch, and follows me around the house whenever I am home.

My family used to laugh and say that he could sense my apprehension towards him and that he was putting out his most cute towards me in an attempt to win me over.  I however, figured it out early. I was a dog’s dream: a messy, food dropping, smelly-footed dream of an owner. After baking scones that weekend I realized the pound of butter I dropped on the floor to accompany the flower which already coated our hardwood floors was promptly licked up by my new pal, which actually helped me as much as it helped him. Eating Chinese food in the den on movie night? The canine ended up with half a wonton and some bits of pork fried rice-the relationship was mutually symbiotic.

I am notorious for being a messy chef and my inability to close a cabinet door has placed open cabinetry in my dream house a must, but it wasn’t until I noticed the puppy’s trend to nestle into a corner and rest his fluffy head on my shoes did I realize he must like the odor of my naturally potent feet (it’s a nature thing, I can’t help it!) which explains why he always accompanies me on the coach and at the edge of my bed on cold nights-he is attracted to my scent. He hasn’t been trying to win me over, I have been unknowingly bribing him to love me!

Alas, this was all still a theory until Christmas Eve when all twenty of my closest family were dining on fish in my Nana’s dining room and my youngest cousin was running around the house.  Naturally Riley came with us to my grandparent’s house for the holiday so we could expect his name coming out of my cousin’s mouth as they played in the next room, but the word “chocolate” accompanying my puppy’s name wasn’t the best of news. Turns out this recently rescued pup used to eat chocolates with his old owner and still had the taste and the stomach for it. The puppers managed some Ferrero Rocher and a Hershey Kiss and survived to tell the tale. Kind of a point of pride for my family, owning the one dog in the world who eats chocolate like a boss.

The chocolate incident was the selling point. For a dog with such a nose for the decadent treat, I knew why he was so keen on me. No I am not made of Toblerone, but I do leave a dark rich brown mark on almost everything I own. There are bits of chocolate icing in the fan of my laptop from that time I brought my computer out during dessert. There is a huge stain on my camera case from those truffles in Shakespeare’s Stratford Upon Avon, my gorgeous wool scarf?  yeah well that smells like hot chocolate from the Christmas tree lighting and my huge pajama sweatshirt has all shades of chocolate on it from celebratory nights at school, depressed nights at school, and movie nights at school. Eating in bed is not as depressing as it says when in college your bed is one of two pieces of furniture in your room. Okay so Jennifer Aniston has that hair, Victoria Beckham has her pencil skirts, the Olsen’s have oversized shirts, and Pharrell has his hat, right? Well, I have chocolate, judge me.

Maybe I should see a hypnotist or something but as far as I am concerned as long as I can successfully for forty days without the delicious stuff every lent I am no addict. If I weren’t this way my lovable pouch Riley, formerly named Mu-Mu (stupid neglective owners before us), sometimes called Honey Mu-Mu, otherwise known as Bear, wouldn’t love me as much as he does, and that just wouldn’t do. I know I denied him at first but even though there is no room for this 5’ 10” body in my little twin size bed, I will always make room for my favorite chocolate-imprinted accessory.