Stalking Pork

Our Post Office owns a pig. It's not a full Post Office, more a dairy with a sub-post office inside. For non-Kiwis, a dairy is like a corner shop, only this one isn't on a corner it is right on the main highway heading north. Anyway, I digress. A few weeks ago, when I was throwing a letter in the letter box, I noticed a rustling of grass next to the box. Snuffling in the knee high grass was a pig. I didn't have time to introduce myself, but the next time I saw our Post Mistress I asked about him. "Is he yours?" to which she replied he was. I automatically thought he was being fed up for a Hangi, but no, the Post Mistress was horrified. "No no, he's a pet pig. He's called Hinu. He's my baby." The said "baby" is the size of our chest of drawers and has a head worthy of a Medieval banquet. I reckon there is 70kgs of bacon rashers on that smiley boy.

I hadn't seen him for a while so enquired about his health. Turns out he had been on romantic stud duties before New Year, and had returned a very Happy Boy, content to rustle around in the long grass and occasionally beg for ice cream from customers.

It makes posting letters a bit of an adventure, as I never know if he is going to stroll out near the fence and give me a cheeky wink.