GRAFTON — The sky was still dark when a parade of pigs trotted out of the woods and stomped into our barnyard.
There were about 30 of them - sows, boars, shoats, gilts, and a few piglets - all squealing and bellowing. The two horses and two mini-donkeys left their feed tubs and craned their necks out of their stall doors, heads raised, eyes wide, nostrils flared.
I walked outside and stepped into the crowd. The pigs stopped clamoring. An old sow came forward and spoke.
“Oodg-ay orningm-ay, umanh-ay.”
I'm not proficient in Pig Latin, but I got the gist of what she was saying.
“We need a PR person to speak to the American people on our behalf,” she continued.
I glanced behind me and saw that the horses and donkeys had lowered their heads and were listening intently. The sow moved closer and nudged my knee with her snout.
“You're it,” she pronounced. The other pigs nodded in agreement.
“I'm very fond of pigs, and I've been acquainted with a few,” I said, “but PR isn't my gig. Maybe you should look for someone with experience.”
The pig shook her head from side to side.
“No. We can't have some duded-up city slicker who has never laid eyes on a pig speaking for us. We need a farm gal who isn't afraid to get her boots dirty.”
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
A hefty boar shouted out from the back of the crowd.
“You bet there's a problem! We've had it with you people equating the bad behavior of men with us. We understood when Mr. Orwell made us the villains in his novel. That was literature, and we are the smartest animals in the barnyard, so whom else would he pick?
“But then when you kids were out in the streets protesting the Vietnam war and police officers abused you with clubs and tear gas, you called them 'pigs.' It didn't help your cause and it besmirched our reputations.
“Soon, feminists were rebelling against the patriarchy and denouncing all men as 'male chauvinist pigs.' You could've just said 'male chauvinists,' but no, you had to drag our names through the mud.”
* * *
The boar's anger robbed him of breath, and a slender gilt spoke next.
“Given the pejoratives that are hurled at women by vile, witless men, we would expect you to be sensitive to our plight, but you don't think twice about trashing pigs.
“In May, when everyone was railing on about Arnold Schwarzenegger and DSK, we saw Time magazine with the poor, innocent piglet on the cover and the headline “What Makes Powerful Men Act Like Pigs,” and we knew we had to get proactive.
“You people are so concerned about the use of excruciatingly correct language when it comes to each other, yet you have no compunction about insulting pigs.”
The boar had recovered his breath, and he spoke again.
“We are nothing like scurrilous men. We don't have ulterior motives. We don't lie and cheat and perform colossal betrayals. What we want is R-E-S-P-E–C-T.”
“Hear, hear!” the pigs chorused, and broke into a rocking rendition of Otis Redding's classic song, the one that Aretha Franklin turned into a huge hit in 1967. The horses and donkeys sang harmonies.
* * *
When the singing stopped, Cricket the donkey piped up.
“No doubt you're noticed that a foolish person is often called a 'jackass?'”
“Or a 'horse's ass,'” Ted the horse interjected.
“What about those Brits who refer to women of questionable character as 'right proper cows'?” Eddie the horse said. “We are all subjected to defamation.”
“It's true that you four-leggeds are much maligned,” I began before I was interrupted by a Canada goose who flew straight into the barn and landed on a rafter.
“It's not only four-leggeds,” the goose said. “I'm offended by the term 'silly goose' used to describe a fluff-brained human. I'd like to see a human make the journeys we make every year without a GPS or frequent stops at fast-food restaurants. We know something about honor and fidelity, too, given that we mate for life.”
“I hear you, sister,” Ted said. “And did you know that when a human runs amok, he is sometimes branded a 'loose horse?'”
“That's ridiculous!” the goose fumed.
“Asinine!” shouted a zealous piglet.
The donkeys glared.
“Oops,” the piglet said. “I'm sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
* * *
I started to feel guilty about my own linguistic transgressions, so I confessed, “I've been known to use the term 'loose horse' myself.”
“That's true,” Ted grumbled, “and what about the times you've threatened to send us back to the racetrack simply because we were a wee bit naughty?”
“I'm sorry. I was joking.”
“Some joke.”
“Lighten up, Ted,” Eddie said. “You know she didn't mean it. Context is everything.”
Dare I write that Ted looked sheepish?
“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he mumbled, somewhat begrudgingly.
The old sow stood on her hind legs and clapped her front hooves.
“Let's stay focused, animals. I'll be truthful with you, woman. We wanted Mark Twain to be our spokesperson, but we learned he's been dead for 101 years. We wanted him because he wrote, 'It is not pleasant to hear you libel the higher animals by attributing to them dispositions which they are free from, and which are found nowhere but in the human heart... Purify your language...drop those lying phrases out of it.'”
“The Mysterious Stranger,” I said. “One of my favorites.”
“Good. You've read it. It will be impossible for you to do work of Twain's caliber, but we expect you to do your best. It's ironic that you people are forever touting your 'superior' intelligence; your ability to 'reason,' to invent, and imagine, and still you go on flapping your gums, perpetuating stereotypes, and resorting to tiresome clichés. If you're so smart, invent a new vocabulary. Or return to serviceable words that have fallen out of common usage but still have zing.”
“Such as?”
“We pigs are partial to the word 'phallocrat' when describing a man who sets no store by women's rights,” she said with a wry smile. “For instance, we might say, 'The man is such an insufferable phallocrat, he couldn't get a date until he was elected to public office.'”
The sow was a born teacher.
“Point taken,” I said, and bowed before the pigs in acknowledgment of my servitude.