In front of me, in a living room on the outskirts of Budapest, Pilo sits plaintively on his hind legs like a dog. He wags his tail like a dog, and he enjoys his belly being rubbed like a dog. When asked sternly, and provided with a suitable cushion, he deigns to lie down like a dog. But Pilo is not a dog. He is a pig — a black-and-grey Minnesota mini-pig to be precise, if “mini-pig” can ever be a precise term for animals which can weigh as much as an adult human.
In front of me, in a living room on the outskirts of Budapest, Pilo sits thoughtfully on his hind lap like a dog. He wagged his tail like a dog and liked to be petted his belly like a dog. When asked harshly, and offered a suitable cushion, he condescended to lie down like a dog. But Pillow is not a dog. He was a pig—a black-and-gray Minnesota minipig, to be exact, and “minipig” is obviously not an accurate term, since it can weigh as much as an adult.
Since the age of two months, Pilo has been raised just as a pet dog would be. In a country where most other pigs would by now have ended up as smoked sausages, the four-year-old is settling in for the long haul. He wears a red dog harness and sleeps in a worn dog bed. His trotters slip across the laminate floor. His wet snout, two thousand times more sensitive than my nose, swivels towards my hands then my shoes.
From the age of two months, Pilo was raised like a pet dog. In a country where most other pigs are now made into smoked sausages, this four-year-old has settled into a long life. He wore a red dog leash and slept on a worn dog bed. Its hooves slid across the laminate floor. His wet nose was two thousand times more sensitive than mine, rubbing against my hands and shoes.