Once upon a time, in a house on Fraternity Park Drive, there lived a pig named Bedford—this is his story.
I’ll never forget the first time I met Bedford the pig. The year was 2013. While discussing classes and schoolwork within the basement of the Pi Kappa Phi fraternity house, the sounds of pandemonium began in the halls above us. Shrieks, laughter and outraged voices drifted downstairs, followed swiftly by one of our new pledges. Swinging open the door, he took a gulp of air and looked at us. “There’s a pig upstairs.”
What followed would have made good footage for a “The Three Stooges” skit: various young men clad in an assortment of brightly colored tank-tops and shorts, whooping and hollering as they chased a very terrified black pig in and around the house. There were near misses and squealing tackles—I think a few of us dove for the tail—and eventually, he was caught and relocated to the very basement in which this column began.
Exhausted, and at this point, traumatized, the once elusive pig accepted his captivity swiftly. Curled in a corner and penned in by overturned bandstands, he resigned himself to what must be every pig’s second line of defense against mankind—undeniable, unequivocal cuteness.
Immediately, debate broke out. The few, more sensible among us argued we should take him to a farm or a pet store, that we absolutely should not (even consider!) keeping him. It was, after all, against school rules to have a pet pig.
Others savagely smelled future bacon or imagined other dark futures for the little guy. The majority of the pledges themselves saw something more in that black pig: a new pet. After all… since when had rules stopped us from making poor decisions?
Like children begging for puppies, they pleaded, “We’ll feed him! We’ll build a pen! We’ll protect him from the world and raise him as our own!” The brotherhood weighed their earnest against the multitude of problems he would inevitably bring, and in the end, we decided—he’s your pig, and your responsibility.
They named him Bedford. Hay bales followed, and soon after, a pen sprouted out of an unused pit in the back patio. Almost immediately, the entire house got sick, but the swine flu passed and fraternal love for the pig began to grow. Like us, he ate everything; like us, he smelled bad; like us, he won over girls with some peculiar and entirely inexplicable charm that may or may not have directly related to his immense stupidity.
Bedford began to answer to his own name and roll over for belly scratches. The pledges adored him and kept him, well, as happy as a pig. Even after our chapter was shut down, that class remains tightly knit and steadfast friends. Undoubtedly, raising a pig together contributed to their bond.
Unfortunately, this story has no happy ending, no whee all the way home. Other fraternities, insane with rage and jealousy, threatened to steal Bedford during Homecoming Week; despite posted guards and a fortified shelter, someone managed to pig-nap our sweet Bedford.
Rumors and accusations flew, and someone left an ironic pack of turkey bacon on our door, but we never could pin the crime on any other houses. Some said he was stolen as a prank but injured in the heist and put down out of mercy; allegedly, a nearby vet had examined a pig the morning after his disappearance. Whoever took him never returned him—to this day, Bedford has not been seen again.
Without our pig, Pong unraveled. A few weeks after his disappearance, we were disbanded. I’d like to imagine that he lives, wallowing in his own filth as happily as he ever did, but I know he’s probably left this world for a greater sty in the sky. What remains in the heart of every Pong, beside the touching memories, is a reminder: men can be real pigs, but pigs can be real men, too.
R.J. Vogt is a senior in College Scholars studying literary journalism. He can be reached at [email protected].
