I remember the day Martin brought Frieda home as a surprise to the family. None of us was more surprised than mother -- or was that dismay that showed across her face. He pulled up the long drive honking wildly. He had taken "the truck" -- a honda pickup that barely deserved the name -- into town on errands. We all looked out to see what the fuss was about. Tally was the first one out the door; apparently some kid radar had sensed a new animal. I looked in the truck bed for what I didn't know -- nothing there. Tally was jumping and whooping all around Martin as he walked toward the house carrying something. Once inside we gathered around him in the entry way for the revelation. He carried a blue blanket wrapped around something -- oh my god it's a pig. What shall we name it was always Tally's first question when anything new entered the household. Her dolls were Tilly and Tully -- I never said she was creative. She had named the new TV LC for liquid crystal, saying that Display was it's last name. So, what shall we name it? Mother stepped in and gave the piggy a good once over hoping for some suggestion in its appearance. She's a unibrow, Martin said. She's Frieda, mother replied.

And that was that. It stuck. Frieda appeared in our lives and began to run the family at that same moment.

Rasputin had his doubts, was not sure whether he was supposed to herd or befriend, so he circled warily in confusion. Frieda took the opportunity to let him know she was boss, and forever after he acknowledged her leadership. Veruscha (vera to me) pawed once at Frieda's snout, got a snort and backed away, back arched. Never to be eye to eye with Frieda again, they made peace by keeping distance...a major life lesson for me I might add.

Tally was instantly in love (as she was with all living things) and announced that Frieda would sleep in her room, that she would walk her, and that nevermore was ham or bacon to be eaten in this house. I hated to give up bacon, but it seemed only fair to stop eating relatives of family members, so I went along.

From the first Tally had trouble domesticating Freida in the way she envisioned. Would Freida trot along daintily on a home-made leash made from braided ribbons? Would she model a white linen bib and bonnet with decorum? Would she snuggle comfy-like in the dollies' crib? No, I'm afraid Freida behaved like a - well - like an animal.

She snorted, she bucked. She left a trail of messy matter on Tally's floor. She tugged the leash from Tally's hands and raced for the hole in the fence. She chewed up her nice white accessories and thrashed around in the crib so hard she splintered it to pieces. Furthermore, Freida would not do tricks or listen to anything Tally asked of her.Tally, who prided herself on her "whispering" ways with her pets was just beside herself with frustration and disappointment. She wanted to cry.

In time Freida was running us ragged in ways which involved the whole family. She'd pick a time when Martin and Mom were both home, (They maintained home offices and made their own time), and both I and little Sis were on hand. Me- I had Boys' Club meetings and school sports - so she'd wait. She wanted a packed house.

Then she'd play her "gotcha game" - racing flat out from the pine grove. shrieking "wee, wee, wee," as if her feet were on fire, them tremble dramatically. Martin would run to the grove with his shot gun and Mom skulked in the yard with the hoe. They were ready to kill any pork-eating preditor who might rob us of our Freida.

Then, she would "laugh." I swear - curl back her little pink lips and snort with gravelly chuckles like it was the richest joke. This prank she managed to pull on my conscientious parents no fewer than 3 times. Time number four proved to be her undoing....

Meanwhile my little sister was developing a case of the “what’s” about Martin and Frieda.

“Rip, Martin says that Frieda has to live outside, in this little pen he’s making for her. He says she’s a farm animal not a house pet and that we have to start thinking of her as part of the food chain. What does he mean, Rip?”

Rip was my nickname, shortened from Ripley. And yes, in case, you’re wondering, Mom had a thing for that macho chick played by Sigourney Weaver in the first Alien flick. I was born the year it came out, 1979. Mom told me once she’d had her heart set on a strong, brilliant, beautiful girl child. And then she said, “But three out of four is just fine, sweetie.” I’m smart and strong and don’t break mirrors when I look at them, but no one would ever mistake me for a girl. Ripley… it’s a weird name, but I’ve grown into it.

Anyway, I had to be careful here because Tally would piss bricks if she knew what I knew about Frieda’s future. Martin was bound and determined for us to learn about the “origins” of our food. He was worried we took too much for granted. And although I was old enough to know better, Tally still thought that pork chops came from the supermarket, tidily packaged in butcher paper. Period.

“Martin’s right, Tally. Frieda’s just too, well, too wild to live inside. And she’s going to get big, you know. When she grows up she could weigh almost 300 pounds. Think about the messes she’d make. It’s not like we could toilet train her…”

Boy, I could feel my nose growing with that line about Frieda growing up. I’d pay for that someday. But there was no way under the sun that Tally would understand what Martin had in mind. No way.

So anyway, I come back from college after mid-terms, and I see Frieda on three legs. OMG!

"Martin," I cried, "What happened to Frieda!"

Tears fell as I heard my much-loved father relate all of Frieda's additions to the family. How we all laughed at her foibles, her piggy pranks, her uniqueness from the time she arrived in her blue blankie. Yes, I remembered.

"So, what did the vet say; does she have cancer, what?" I demanded.

Martin gave me a befuddled look, then related Frieda's latest adventure. How she saw a Pacific rattler slithering and coiling out of the latest permutation of articulture. Rasputin was on his curious shuffle/snuffle amble to see this new creature. A buzzed warning went unheeded. Martin witnessed Frieda in an unexpected burst of heroism bowl Rasputin over, and take two lightning hits, before squealing, turning and shredding the serpent into filets crotalus, then dining al fresco on the remains.

"She lost her le-leg to sn-snakebite," I stammered, gathering her in my arms, "m- my heroic d-dear. I'll pay the vet bill, Martin!"

"There is no vet bill," Martin replied. "Everyone knows pigs are immune to snakebite.

"By the way dear, your mother is preparing a pork roast for dinner tonight, with baked potatoes, green beans, gravy, the works! Hope you brought your appetite! How'd you do mid-terms?"

"Appetite? Grades? Martin, what happened to Frieda's LEG?"

"Oh, I thought you knew, Rip," Martin matter of factly concluded, "A shoat like Frieda, you don't eat all at once..."

“Where’s Tally?” I croaked.

“She’s outside somewhere. Supper’s in 20 minutes.”

I reeled from the kitchen, stunned, nauseated by the smell of roasting pork. I had to find Tally. A misshapen October sun sagged sadly toward the western horizon. Prickly oak leaves crunched underfoot. The air carried a trace of wood smoke from the crews burning off brush one hill over from ours. Vera had followed me from the house and tried to weave her furry way between my legs as I walked, an old habit of hers. I gently scooted her aside. I knew where to find Tally. She’d be perched in her thinking tree, out at the edge of our property overlooking the shadowy green canyon below.

“Tally, you here? Show yourself, tadpole.” Shit, she’d probably hate that. I used to call Tally “tadpole” when she was little, seven or eight maybe. Tally would be 14 in December, and had never been a sucker for false notes or cheap sentiment.

“Rip!” she cried, dropping down from her roost in the ancient redwood tree. “Rip, I’ve missed your snotty ass!” She wrapped her ropy, sun-browned arms around my middle; I ruffled her red ringlets. She seemed as slender as a blade of spring wheat and smelled of paint. Her overalls looked like a Pollock canvas. Tally had taken up painting a couple of years ago. Mom was enchanted, convinced that Tally was the next Georgia O’Keeffe, and generously bestowed paints, brushes, canvas, stretchers, easels. In fact Tally’s efforts, primitive and untrained but striking, were more of the Lucien Freud variety—unsentimental, unapologetic nudes often posed with animals. Her best work to date – a muscular and bristly Frieda recumbent on a bed of straw – hung over Tally’s bed.

She flashed her brown eyes at me. "Rip, Martin’s lost it, totally lost it. Remember about a million years ago when he sat me down and talked to me about the food chain and how Frieda’s purpose in the natural order of things was to provide us with meat and how when the time was right we’d, we’d… I hate that word ‘butcher.’ But that’s not how it is at all, Rip. Martin’s going to piecemeal her. A pork roast lopped off here, some bacon shaved off there. It’s horrible, it’s like some slasher flick. We’ve got to do something. We’ve got to get Frieda out of here.”

Her voice had gone all squeaky like it did when she was little, and tears were splashing down her cheeks. “Hang on, Tally. Just hang on. We’ll figure something out. Quiet now, quiet now.”