Javelinas: Unlikely But Loyal Pets
This article was first posted on Boomer-Living Plus on November 11, 2013.
The southwest Sonoran desert antes up some pretty unique creatures. One that tops my list of favorites is the javelina, commonly referred to as a wild pig. Actually it’s part of the peccary family – hoofed mammals with South American roots. Should you ever live in the central to southwest part of Arizona, you’ll likely see javelinas in open spaces that have cacti and other plants, their main source of food, though they readily will graze on garbage.
They aren’t dangerous, in fact they have very bad eyesight, but will act aggressive when protecting their young or when threatened by a dog or coyote, their only natural predators. Javelinas boast a bristly coat, grow to about fifty pounds, and will never be contenders in the cute-and-cuddly category. They do, however, make nice pets as I discovered in my cattle ranching days.
I was managing Lazy B at the time, the family ranch straddling Arizona and New Mexico. I had taken the jeep out to check on water levels in the holding tanks and leave some fresh salt licks for the cows. While squatting on the ground next to one of the tanks, I heard a chorus of squeaks. Just inches in front of my boot, nestled in a clump of grass, were two baby javelinas, their eyes not yet open. Their pitiful cries indicated they were eager for mama to return with some milk. I scoped the area for hoof prints or a carcass, but there was no sign of mama.
I scooped up one of the babies. It fit perfectly in my palm. The early summer morning still had a chill, so I grabbed a work glove from my back pocket and gently slid the baby inside it. Its sibling went into the other glove. I settled the pair on the jeep floor and continued on my weekly rounds.
Back at headquarters, the first thing I did was wrangle up a bottle and nipple. We always kept them in stock to feed doggies and other orphans, though it took me a bit to find one small enough for these tiny tots. I had one of the babies in my hand and was urging it to take the bottle when Cole Webb, the ranch foreman, came up.
“They’re starving, but they won’t eat,” I said.
Cole frowned. “You’d think they’d like that warm milk.”
We found a box and blanket, made a nest for the babies, and left them in the screened-in back porch of my house. We checked on them after lunch. Again, those little dickens refused the bottle.
“I don’t know if they’ll make it another twenty-four hours,” I said. Cole and I sat looking at the box. Neither of us wanted to give up on their lives.
“Well, maybe they don’t like the nipple,” Cole said. “Let’s try a cup.”
I had never seen an orphan animal drink from a cup. But I fetched one from the kitchen. Cole poured milk into it and held it up to the baby’s mouth. The baby started slurping. After a long drink, it turned its head and for the first time all day, no cry escaped its tiny lungs.
From that point on, Cole and I became parents to the two javelinas. They were funny little creatures with habits I never anticipated. Within a few weeks, they would jump on our laps looking for attention and a warm hand after being fed. We expanded their diet to table scraps and they grew quickly. When I walked out the back door of the house, they would start following me, grunting and trotting around headquarters. They were as loyal as dogs.
I named them Sandra and Ann after my sisters, but they looked so much alike that I never could tell which was Sandra and which was Ann. One would bump the other, trying to get in the lead. They would snort at each other and play like they were going to fight, but they never did. Their bristly hair came in and pretty soon petting them was like petting a wire brush.
Six months later, they took their first solo field trip. I walked out the house and only a handful of cats were milling around. For a moment, I couldn’t put my finger on what was missing. Then I realized Sandra and Ann weren’t there. I went about my business half expecting them to show up, but it wasn’t until the shadows had lengthened on the ground that they returned.
They trotted up to me and bumped my legs, eager for attention. They hung around for a few more weeks, then disappeared. By the third day, I thought they had gone for good. But there they were, trotting across the grounds, back from some adventure. The duration of their visits shortened. Finally they left never to return.
I suspected that would happen. Still, I missed them – missed their antics, their loyalty, their affection. I liked to imagine they found some wild cousins and joined them in their travels.
Sometimes people step into your life for a while, sometimes animals. Whether those beings you call friends have two legs or four legs, whether they are pretty or pretty ugly, when they leave, there’s always a space that remains empty and a memory that lingers.
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