I read an article in Texas Monthly about a man who was mauled by Waylon, a 5-year-old pet warthog whom he had raised since birth. Waylon was sweet and docile up until the day of the attack, when he stabbed the man with his razor-sharp tusks upwards of fifteen times. The article concludes: warthogs do not make good pets.
Speaking of warthogs, Monica and I saw a new movie, Hexadecimal, starring Harrison Ford and Emily Blunt. Also starring in the film: a sounder of warthogs. Harrison portrays a lifelong hunter who uses hexadecimal camouflage, allowing him to approach his prey close enough to kill with a bow. Emily Blunt portrays an animal rights activist hellbent on changing hearts and minds. I’m siding with Harrison on this one.
The film was entertaining, but it made me a little melancholy, urging me to self-medicate. Monica and I head over to the VFW, which we affectionately call “the dub.” The smoke-stained walls are covered in framed photographs of old and young war vets smiling at barbecues, celebrating various milestones. The lamp-lit room holds three tables and a small bar which sits only ten people, creating an intimate atmosphere.
Summer pours us screwed roosters—our name for vodka w/ cranberry and orange juice because the heavy pours make us crow the morning after. I bring up the topic of warthogs. I tell everyone they are meant to take down lions. I educate them on hexadecimal hunting technology. I talk about Waylon and how crazy it was that the man survived the brutal attack. My best guess is that his survival was due in large part to some form of divination.
I survived a man once. It is my educated opinion that a man is much more dangerous than a warthog. So, perhaps I unwittingly used some form of divination as well.
I got toasted on those screwed roosters and passed out right when I got home, which means I forgot to take my nicotine patch off, causing me to have freaky dreams. I woke up in a cold sweat, shivering. I dreamt of the hunter and his reasoning for becoming one. In the dream, I concluded that he began hunting because he has the same nature as the warthog: one of unpredictability and violence. But the hunter can’t admit it to himself, so he kills animals in an attempt to kill the thing inside him.
I told Monica about the dream, and she said, “That sounds wack.” I laughed at her response, but deep down I didn’t think it sounded wack at all. Monica doesn’t really think about stuff like that. She’s never had to survive a warthog. Or a man.