Priscilla was looking for a man.

It didn’t matter that Priscilla had beady eyes, a few stray hairs on her nose and a figure that resembled a beer keg on its side, supported by four squatty legs. No, for in the world of pot-bellied pigs, my four-year-old Priscilla was quite the looker.

She was in her prime and, whenever the moon rose ripe over the mountains to the east, nothing could keep Priscilla from looking for a mate. Nothing — Not fences of board or wire … not rebar rods of steel … not even rocks the size of basketballs – nothing would stand in the way of her lust for love.

She would dig, tunnel, root and, in the end, somehow manage to squeeze out of every confinement I built. Deep gashes ran the length of her back as if “keyed” by a malicious pedestrian. But that didn’t deter Priscilla. Her hide was tough. Her heart was free. Her desire was wild.

Unable to watch her tear her backside to shreds in the name of romance, I found Priscilla a new home. I packed up the pig and her two possessions – two blankets she slept with every night – in the back of my pickup and headed to the Mule Creek Post Office where Pumbaa lived.

Pumbaa had to be the biggest, ugliest pot-bellied boar I’d ever seen. The size of a cedar chest, a roll of whiskered fat hid his watery pink eyes and one of two thick tusks curled right up into his snout. He belonged to the post mistress, growing up all by himself behind the small, country post office in Southwestern New Mexico. Raised a vegan, Priscilla’s favorite foods were summer squash and broccoli. Pumbaa was a junk-food addict, given Oreos every day by children who came for the mail with their moms or dads.

But Priscilla didn’t seem to mind. She calmly went to her side of the barn and waited for her blankets. Pumbaa stuck his snout between the wooden slats that divided his side from hers and snorted with the power of a raging bull. I was worried for my sweet Priscilla. Could she live with such a beast?

I went into the post office to discuss my concerns. The post mistress chuckled, said she’d make sure nobody got hurt, and I walked back to the barn to say goodbye. Even in the world of pot-bellied pigs, love must be blind. There was Priscilla, pushing one of her blankets under the slats. It was her favorite blanket, the one with the yellow and pink ducks on it, and she was sharing it with Pumbaa, who had never had anything but dirt for a bed.

Priscilla looked content. She’d finally found her man and, as I drove back home, I knew they would indeed live happily ever after.

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