Life was good on the farm. My chickens were laying about eight eggs a day, and customers, mostly neighbors and old friends, were buying about four dozen eggs a week. Dad and I had just finished construction of my pig pen when I spread the word across town, "PIG WANTED." I was not very specific; any old pig would do just fine.

     The phone rang. Mom shouted out the back door, "Jason, someone's asking for the pig boy!"

     "Pig boy?," I thought. I put my name on the pig signs. I was slightly offended but eagerly picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Jason."

     An older voice replied, "Hi, I'm Jim. Sorry, I could not remember your name from the sign. I have pigs, lots of pigs. When can you come look at them?"

     "Right now!, I almost shouted. "Where do you live?" I wrote down the directions with the speed of a housefly at dinnertime.

     "Mom, can we-" I started to say.

     "Yes dear, let me get my keys." Once on the road, I wanted mom to drive faster. She said the pigs were not going anywhere as I bounced on the seat. For some reason, I thought the bouncing would increase our speed.

     "Cool your jets, Mr. pig ranger," she said with a smile, and sped up two miles per hour. Every little bit helps I thought.

     By the time we arrived at our destination I was ready to buy ten large hogs. Mom reminded me we were shopping for one pig, and not to step in or touch anything. My mind flashed through all the pages I had read on pigs. I pulled myself together and put on my serious pig face.

     I was tempted to grab the farmer's hand and drag him toward the barn. I wanted to ask if he raised any turtles. He was walking sooooo slow.

     I could not help myself. When I saw the baby pigs darting around their mother, I yelled "Wow! Oh Mom! They are so cool!" I wanted to dance a little pig jig right there on the spot. Mom sensed I was on the verge of dancing and raised her eyebrows to calm me down.

     I tried to think of something to show I was not really that excited. I looked at the black and white spotted pigs in front of us and said, "Not bad, but I really, really was hoping for a DIFFERENT color."

     Jim cracked a smile, "What did you have in mind?"

     "My heart was set on a red one, in memory of my rooster, good old Big Red." I thought surely there would be no red pigs.

     Jim flashed a smile that would brighten the darkest room. "Right this way," he said, taking giant strides toward the back of the barn.

     Mom pretended she was going to faint. I pretended I was going to catch her. We laughed as we tried to catch up to Jim, who was walking like his hips would fly off and hit the wall. I nearly broke a rib, laughing at mom as she imitated Jim and his swinging hips.

     We followed Jim past an assortment of pigs. My step had a little bounce in it, to keep up, but also, I felt I had discovered my future occupation. These animals were just plain weird.

     They all seemed to be asking, demanding, or begging for something with their wide range of grunts and squeals. Raising pigs would never be boring, and I was already getting used to the strong pig manure odor. My nostrils finally stopped quivering.

     Mom interrupted my daydream, "Boy! That smell sure does remind you to stop and smell the roses!"

      I knew there was a lesson there, but wasn't sure what. We reached the other side of the barn, and I froze in my tracks.

     Jim said, "These are my Durocs, the closest thing to a red pig you will find."

     How could I disagree? Jim's future tombstone would probably read, "Pig Expert of the Century." The color was not red red; it was a rusty red. But what could I say? The color of Big Red was a rusty red too. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was meant to be. Big Red's memory would live on in a little red pig. Then I thought of the black and tan Fred, and wished that whole episode never happened.

      We paid $25.00 for a freshly weaned, six week old, sixteen pound Duroc pig. From my studies, I knew the girls were called gilts, the boys barrows, and mama pigs sows. Jim tied my gilt's feet and placed her gently in a large burlap bag.

     My sister Melissa ran out to greet us in the driveway. She was excited, practically shouting in my ear, "Is it a girl or boy?"

     "It's a girl," I said, rubbing my ear.

     Melissa suggested Rita for a name. "That way when she's being bad you can holler, "SETTLE DOWN BIG RED RITA!" I liked it. I liked it a lot. Melissa and I made up a dance and called it the Big Red Rita jig. Mom and dad laughed and joined our dance too.

     We put Rita in her new pig pen. She tip-toed around for a minute, sniffing everything. Suddenly, she gave a loud squeal of approval and raced around the pen. My sister shouted, "You go girl! You go Little Red Rita!"

     We laughed and stared for hours. Rita's assorted grunts and squeals were better than any Saturday morning cartoon.

     Dad came home to find us feeding Rita. He whistled and said, "Mmmmm mmmm, hello Miss Bacon!"

     My mind shifted to my master plan, my plan to save Rita from the breakfast table. I said, "Dad, I think Rita would make a fine sow one day." I could hardly breathe waiting for his reply.

     "You know son, I was hoping for some fresh bacon to go with those fresh eggs."

     I pointed out quickly, "I just saw the other day, there was an incredible sale on bacon at the store!" My hands started to tremble with the silence that followed. Was my father really going to turn Rita into juicy porkchops and crispy bacon?

     Hmmm, let's see. Well, OK, I guess Little Red Rita can grow into the one and only Big Mama Red Rita!"

      "Yes! Oh Yes! Thank you! You're the best pig dad a boy could ever have!" Realizing that didn't come out quite right, I gave dad a big bear hug as he laughed.

     Melissa and I danced our famous pig jig, and we had mom rush us down to buy the bacon on sale. We did not want to take any chances.

      Mom allowed us to save leftovers for Rita from the dinner table. I loved to feed Rita. She loved to eat. I especially loved to feed her things like squash, eggplant and okra from my dinner plate. Mom hugged me one morning and became suspicious. She said, "You feel like you're just skin and bone," as she ran her finger down my ribs. "Have you been saving your food for Rita?"

     I tried to change the subject. "Mom, what kind of chore can I do for you around the house?"

      She pulled me close and whispered, "Jason, you are a growing boy. You need that food more than Rita. No more of this skin and bone business, OK?"

     I promised to eat all my portions and went to break the news to Rita. She was definitely turning into Big Red Rita.

     My city friends came out to see Rita. I thought they stared hard at the chickens. But, they LOVED Rita. They hugged Rita. They kissed Rita. I had to draw the line at riding Rita.

     All of a sudden, there were shouts of joy. Rita was loose! Big Red Rita was charging toward mom's garden! My friends, who I'm sure let Rita out on purpose, were pointing, laughing and chasing my two hundred pound runaway pig. It would be embarrassing, but I knew I had to sing. I had to sing to calm Rita down.

     I silenced my friends and slowly approached Rita. She was snacking on my mother's favorite tomatoes when I began,

     "There once was a dog named Fred

     Ran around the farm and laid in his bed

     ‘Til one day the rooster Big Red

      Flew around the barn and picked on Fred

     The bully Big Red was tough he thought

     ‘Til one day the farm he bought

      All that was left was a foot and feathers

     Eaten by Fred during perfect weather

     Fred liked the taste and ate two more

     I sent Fred packing, out the door

     They are gone

     And I have you

     Back in the pen or you'll catch the flu."

My friends filled the barnyard with applause. I silenced them with a wave of my hand. I did not want Rita to lose her gentle demeanor after the song.

     I was nearly touching Rita's head when she charged into me with such vigor that I landed on her back! I thought, "Maybe she wanted to try another tomato." Rita started racing around like a bucking bronco. I wrapped my arms around her neck and held on for all I was worth.

     Everyone began shouting, "RIDE ‘EM COWBOY! HOLD ON JASON!" Out of sheer luck, in her confused condition, Rita ran into her pen and bucked me into the water tank. It was a toss-up. I could not tell what my friends were doing more of, cheering or laughing.

     Even Rita appeared to be smiling. I said, wiping the water from my eyes, "Big Red Rita, you want tomatoes, you got tomatoes!" I worked out a deal with my mom for some of her garden tomatoes every Saturday.

     One bright fall day, several months later, Rita gave birth to a large litter of piglets. I was so worried, watching her grunt and strain with each one's arrival. Mom and dad stood behind me saying everything was normal. After a dozen baby pigs, my eyes were as wide as saucers. They kept on coming! Thirteen! Fourteen! Fifteen! Sixteen! Finally, Rita was finished. Sixteen baby pigs! I felt like passing out cold, trying to think of sixteen names. I gave up, busted out of the pen and shouted as loud as I could, "Get your pig pen lot, baby pigs can be bought!"

     Sadly, two of the original sixteen died the next day of unknown causes. Between my twenty chickens, Big Red Rita, and fourteen baby pigs, my life was hopping like a frog on fire.

     I sold fourteen pigs for $25.00 apiece. Selling the pigs helped pay off the feed expenses of $175.63, which gave me some extra money to invest. I decided to increase my egg-laying operation and bought twenty more chicks for $1.75 apiece. I was selling eggs for $1.50 a dozen.

     One star-filled night, as the moon sparkled over our pond, I realized something was missing. I ran inside. "Mom, dad, you are not going to believe this! I have such a great idea!"