I Want a Mini Pig

I used to think pet ownership was cruelty. Animals packed into tiny cages, aquariums barely bigger than a shoebox, fish bowls, birds with clipped wings, dogs chained in a space smaller than a closet. Instead of forests they got sofas. Instead of oceans they got someone’s arm. It was wrong.

Partly that was sour grapes. I never had a pet growing up, so I made a virtue of not having one. No dogs to run around with, no goldfish to watch, no cat wrecking the apartment. I missed the whole thing and turned it into a moral stance, which is easy when you’ve got nothing to lose.

Then I found out about miniature pigs and the whole argument fell apart. They’ve been trendy in England and Spain for years—tiny, ridiculous, impossible to see without wanting one immediately. Someone told me Ron Weasley has one. That shouldn’t matter but it does.

Now I’m researching things I never thought I’d care about. Where do you even buy a mini pig? What do you name it? More importantly, where do I get studs and leather belts so I can turn it into a tiny punk rock pig? Actually, I should water my plants. They’re turning colors they’re not supposed to turn. Responsibility is really everything.