Generally, I am not a plaintive pig. For some fifteen years I have stoically lived – existed, really – in a dreary Calabasas canyon below the opulent home of my owners, who spend much of their time cavorting around the nation and the world. I don’t begrudge them their money, which, to my knowledge, they earned, rather than stole, in some typical human way. My current grievance, about which I must no longer remain silent, is the sad culmination of having been eternally banned from the huge-windowed home above and forbidden even the occasional companionship of a congenial sow.

I therefore trust you will understand my need to vigorously partake of whatever rare treat I may encounter. Last week I was most enthused when the miserly lady of the house, who twice daily limits me to a tiny eight-ounce can of pig pellets, comprised of grasses and grains, was in such a rush to get to some frivolous event that she failed to thoroughly latch the door to the feed shed. With porcine intelligence, much superior to that of canines, I spotted the opportunity and stuck my snout into it, pulling open the door.

Come on in with me, I motioned with my head to Scotty the pony, my only real pal. And in I charged to instantly attack the fifty-pound can holding my pellets. The can was but half full yet still held quite a feast I began to devour. I ate all morning. I dined all afternoon. I nibbled most of the night. And in the morning, when the hoity-toity lady returned, she screamed, “Oscar, you fool.”

Alas, I could not stand to defend myself. I frankly thought I was dying. My belly was swollen to frightening proportions by a dozen delicious pounds of pig pellets. I confess that is rather a large amount to consume, even for a three-hundred-pound pig, since my stomach, surprisingly, is only about the size of the average human’s. My groans were extreme and unmistakable pleas to summon emergency medical care, but I’ll more likely be elected to Congress than receive any such attention from these owners who, rather than taking me to a veterinarian for my dreadful arthritis, daily thrust a big aspirin down my throat.

The second morning after my culinary binge I still couldn’t stand, and when the lady arrived to check on me – or was it to laugh? – I intensified my groans and squeals, forcing her to pull out her cell phone to summon her husband, who drove down on the other tractor – neither ever walks, yet they call me lazy. The man stiffened as he lectured, “Look at Scotty. He’s fine because he only ate a little of his soaked alfalfa. But he’s a horse. You, Oscar, are a pig.”