Super Piggy

By Annie Harmon

Oscar is a dog, but he knows this new potbelly pig is going to be his best friend for life. Sure, Piggy pees while he eats, he eats while he walks, and he walks into trouble on a daily basis. 

​Meet Oscar, the deep-chested dog who just wants to play chase. When Piggy arrives at the family’s home, he is quickly recruited as Oscar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Something Fishy
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947099234

Annie Harmon

Annie Harmon lives in Houston (specifically Atascocita) Texas,USA, but has lived in many of our beautiful states. She has one husband (all she can handle) three children (who are each more beautiful than she could have hoped) and one dog (who is still trying to claim a spot as one of the above mentioned).Annie is a member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. Her writing credits include a novel, For Sarah; two children's books, The Night Before and The Argument; ghostwriting several chapters of a nonfiction book, The Black Years; publishing a local magazine, Zine, - directed towards the literary encouragement of young people; contributing to the Sun News newspaper with a regularly published humor column on raising children, "Raising New Mexico"; and editorial assistance to the Tucson Parent Magazine.

Book preview

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Part One

Arrival

A New Friend

Snowball

Super Pee

Failed Escape

Bear’s Prank

Piggy Uses His Head

The Not-a-Table

Piggy Cleans Up

Secret Treats

Meter Man

Part Two

Death in the Family

Piggy Takes Charge

First Day Out

Confronting Bad Dog

Broken Leg

The Fight

The Dog Catchers

It'll Come to You

At It Again

Coming in 2018

An Excerpt from Sir Piggy

Acknowledgements

Copyright © 2017 by Annie Harmon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. 

For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions at the email address as follows: [e-mail]

Something Fishy Books are Printed in the United States of America. 

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First Printing, 2017

ISBN-13: 978-1-947099-19-7

Artwork was created by Annie Harmon using Sketchbook Pro

Dedication

For Nikki

This story is for Piggy's real mom, Mercedes Ciel Nicole.

I still don't know if I fell in love with that silly pig of yours because he was so funny, or if it was because I loved you, and that pig meant so much to you.  Either way, it happened.  I wanted to wring his naughty neck at times, but then my heart would just melt with love for him.

The first attempt of this story was much closer to the actual events: with us buying Piggy for your birthday, and then the break-in at your apartment and his arrival at our house. But as the story grew, I realized the story wasn't about how Piggy came, but about how he grabbed everyone's heart once he got here.  So I shortened it- cut you right out of the story.  Forgive me. 

I hope I preserved the best parts of him here for you to remember.   

 When I was younger, I’d curl up at Stephen’s feet for bedtime stories. So, unlike most dogs, I could tell you all about Greek Gods, and who stole the mythical lightning bolt. I could tell you exactly where the red Fern grows. And most importantly, I could tell you why a pig’s life is worth saving even if a spider isn't there to spell it out for you.

~Oscar

Part One

Getting to know Piggy; Piggy comes to live with us, and becomes my friend 

Arrival

I know it sounds cliché, a dog who doesn't like cats, but I never got along with Kitty Bear. It may be wrong to speak ill of the deceased, but I couldn't come up with more than one or two sweet things Kitty Bear had done. They certainly wouldn't be the kind of things that would make you run out and buy her a treat. At least, not until Piggy came to live with us.

Piggy arrived at our house on a Saturday afternoon. The day started out quiet as usual. The family had been gone that morning, and the cat and I had been left to entertain ourselves with long naps.

A noise woke me. I stood up from the floor, stretched and looked around. Seeing nothing outside, other than a few tipped over trashcans, I decided Bear and I had napped long enough.

Spotting her small, black and brown dappled body on the couch, I called, Up! Kitty Bear! Up, up, up, up!

As usual, she snarled at me to go away. I'm sleeping, why don’t you go chase your tail?

That was her way of being funny. See, I haven't mentioned it yet, but I'm a boxer. I don’t have a tail; it was cropped when I was a few weeks old.

Up! I insisted. 

Kitty Bear rolled away from me, making her collar tags clank together. She didn't like the sound and quickly rolled back. But this just made more clinking noises and she scowled.

In the time it took me to walk to the stairs, she had jumped off the couch, dug her back claws into the rug, and pushed off for a sprint. She tore up the steps, and passed me right under my legs.

Then I heard it. The sound of a key fitting into the front door.

They’re home! Oh, they’re home, they’re home, they’re home! I don’t know why I get so excited when they open the door, but it’s like the promise of bacon. I can’t resist.

I tried to turn around, but being a mature dog in a narrow stairwell, I can't spin around as easily as Kitty Bear can. Before I knew it, she was on her way down, twisting around my legs and tripping me.

I tried to break my fall with my front legs. They gave out and I rolled down the last step, landing on the hard tiled foyer as the door opened.

Oh, watch out for Oscar! was the first thing out of Mom's mouth as she led the way into the house. Behind her was seven-year-old Stephen carrying a box. Dad's arms reached down and pulled the box out of Stephen's hands, lifting it above his own head.

I was positive they had a present for me inside that box. Why else would they be talking about me while they carried it? I jumped up to reach the box, letting them know I was there.

My paws landed on Dad's chest and he turned around, presenting me with his back. I dropped back down to the floor.

What is it? Give it! Give it! I barked. All the while Dad carried the box into the kitchen and set it onto the counter.

Mom peeked into the box. Oh, look at him, he’s so cute!

She lifted something out of the box and I strained to get closer.

It was a pig.  It was black, with small patches of white, and so small it could have fit inside my mouth. I suspect I wasn't the only one to notice this, because now Dad knelt down and held my collar.

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Mom stuffed a milk tube into the piglet's mouth and it began making sucking noises with soppy, enthusiastic squeaks in-between.

When she pulled the milk away, the pig squeaked just like the plastic bubble inside my toy squirrel. Oh, I definitely liked this thing!  

Dad heard the squeal too. Well, it sure doesn't help that it sounds just like a dog chew. I think for now Oscar should be locked up.

Mom looked down at me, perhaps for the first time since coming through the front door. I sat back down on my haunches and whined, Please, please, just let me see. I won't eat it, I promise.

I think she believed me because she said, Just hold him tight. And she leaned in closer, slowly bringing the pig to my level. And that was my first good look at this pig. He had eyes like little raisins and a pink mouth that seemed to be all tongue.

I breathed in deep. He squeaked and squirmed in Mom's hands until she raised him back up. I think he'll be okay. It's not like we can keep Oscar locked up forever.

A New Friend

Mom put the pig down on the floor and took a cautious step back to see what I would do. I looked around for Kitty Bear, had she seen this thing? No, the cat had already laid back down for a nap.

Who are you? the pig squeaked.

I’m the dog of the house. I told him, giving him my most regal pose.

Now, you don’t know me well, so maybe it would help to tell you: I am a handsome canine. I am a boxer with a very deep chest, and a small waist. My fur is a soft, tawny brown and I have two black moles, one on either side of my rounded cheek bones. My jowls hang down just a bit, just enough to make my muzzle look bigger than it is. But mostly it’s my intelligent gaze that makes my pose so impressive.

You’re so big! The pig squealed.

He missed the point. Perhaps I should have explained it to him as I just did for you, but instead, I just nodded as sagely as I knew how- which is very sagely.

Are you going to eat me? the pig asked with all seriousness. My mother said the house dogs bite her legs if they get into her cage. Will I get a cage here? You won’t go into it will you? When is feeding time? Can I eat now? I’m hungry again. What’s your name?

Wow. I had a hard time deciding which questions to cover, so I decided on the only two I knew I could answer. My name is Oscar. And if I was going to eat anyone, I looked at Bear. I knew she couldn’t sleep through this! Her eyes were open and she was watching. It would be the cat.

Piggy lifted his head to see the cat. Yes, that is a much bigger meal.

Bear stood and stretched. She can’t take a joke.

Stupid mutt, you’d slip on your own drool before you ever caught up to me. And off she slunk.

So, do you play chase? I asked the pig. Nothing makes me happy like a good game of chase. Except a ham bone; but I only get those on rare occasions. Chase I could play all the time, if I just had a good running partner.

The pig didn’t seem to understand the word, so I explained. You run and I follow. But you have to run like you mean it. Run like you need to feel the wind rushing into your ears and tickling your nose. Run so fast that all the smells blur into one brand-new smell, but don’t stop to think about it, just run faster. That’s how you play chase.

That sounds like fun. He stood up on tiny stick legs and stumbled around on the hard flooring. Then he rocked his stomach back and forth over those little legs, and when he had a good momentum going, he shot his body forward.

He slid face first across the wood floors. Like that? he called.

Sure, I reassured him. No sense in breaking his youthful spirit. But this time let’s not do the rocking back and forth thing. And instead of sliding, dig your hooves into the floor. It’s okay if you scratch it a little bit. That’s how you know where you started the game.

Okay. Piggy picked up one hoof then the next. He pranced across the floor with a soft click-clack sound like my toe nails make.

Now do that, but faster.

Piggy pranced faster. It was starting to look pretty good for a guy walking on his tip toes. I barked that I was ready to chase him and then I sprang forward.

Ow! the pig squealed, You landed on me!

I tried to look dignified about the situation, but it was hard with the pig pounding my chest with his paws. If I could only get up onto my legs again.

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And then I heard: Oscar!

A hand swatted my rear and I turned my head to see Mom’s look of horror. You leave that pig alone, Oscar. I thought I could trust you! She swatted me again - it didn’t hurt me as much as it insulted me - and she picked up the pig. Oh, you must be so terrified! She cooed into his face.

Right, I get swatted and it’s the pig she thinks is terrified. Humans.

Mom put the pig onto the ottoman and Dad grabbed my collar. Outside Oscar. He dragged me all the way to the back door. It was so humiliating! I glanced behind to see if the pig was laughing at me. I was surprised to see the pig tumbling off the ottoman, running between Mom's legs and jumping over to me.

He ran up and slammed into my legs, and do you know what he said?

I did it! I chased you!

No laughing, no smug looks. He could have waited until I was out and everyone came over to coochy-coo their pity all over him. Instead, he kept the game going.

Piggy, are you playing with Oscar? Mom asked, quite astonished.

I brushed my muzzle up to Piggy’s so she could see what good pals we were.

Oscar, back away! Dad snapped, trying to push me towards the door. 

I weigh 70 pounds, and most of it was in the very chest he was shoving against. Although it was a laughable attempt, I complied.

Mom stopped Dad. She picked the tiny pig up and held him out to me. Now go slow, Oscar. Smell him? He’s not food. He’s a pet, like you. Got it?

Just for the record, I never once thought he was food. First of all, he looks nothing like