Hog Heaven, A Lawyer’s Pig Tale by Steven Eichenblatt

Hog Heaven, A Lawyer’s Pig Tale by Steven Eichenblatt

A primal scream pierces the quiet. Twigs snap with assault rifle speed as the rustle of leaves approaches my perch. A foul stench that reeks of urine and rotten eggs. An unfamiliar noise from beyond the tree line. Shock … a nightmare comes bursting through, shattering the calm, as two tusks—sharpened bayonets—thrust in my direction. Heart attack? Hallucination? How did we get here?

“Here” is Billy’s handicapped-accessible custom Ford F-250 Super Duty Turbo Extra-Turbo, XL Diesel Turbo, its oversize tires and chassis lifted off the ground, making it ideal for whatever it is we are doing. What are we doing?

“We” is me and my law partner Gary, who’s seated in the back. He leans forward, face squeezed along my headrest and whispers so Billy, who is driving, won’t hear, “Steve, what have you gotten us into?”

I tap my ear, shaking my head like I don’t hear him. The truth is I know what he is asking but don’t know the answer. 

The engine rumbles with the steady vibration of a well-oiled lawnmower. The diesel fuel lingers in the air, making me lightheaded. This is a serious truck. Two shotguns are locked into the gun rack across the back window, and rough textured braided rope sits on the back seat, the kind they use in cowboy movies when they are going to string someone up.   

Gary speaks much louder, “STEVE? What have you gotten us into?”

I turn my head to the right and lean back so he can hear my response. “Gary, this was a team decision. I’m not sure what we agreed to do but we are doing it.”

Gary grimaces, “Well you’re the guy who led us to ski out of bounds in Utah. You got us stuck on top of the trees, and …”

I cut him off, “That’s not exactly what happened. Who knew out of bounds meant death zone? We’re lawyers, so I figured we could get around the rules. The fun never starts until we push our limits. And besides, you’re the one who talked me into whitewater rafting on the Upper Gauley in West Virginia—during dam release—making it one of the most dangerous rivers in the country.” 

Gary’s blue eyes narrow, “Hey, you made it, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, but only after we flipped and I popped up under the raft.” Adventures aren’t worth writing about unless there is a death or near death.

“SO, Steve, one more time, what are we doing here?” Gary shakes his head, and I nod mine, our knowing smiles meaning neither of us knows anything but each knows we know we don’t know. Good lawyers know when they don’t know.  It’s better than pretending you know or not knowing you don’t. Billy—much wiser than us—knows and is taking pleasure in our uncertainty.

Billy stares straight ahead, his calloused, weathered hands, gripping the steering wheel the way he once gripped his horse’s reins. He looks towards us, dark brown eyes twinkling as he asks, “Ain’t you city lawyers going to see what’s in those bushes?” He chuckles, and clearly the joke is on us. Billy continues, “You boys better get moving … nothing to worry ‘bout … spit … spit.”

His voice, raspy from a thirty-year, two-pack-a-day cigarette habit is interrupted by an occasional sharp, splattering sound as he spits tobacco juice into the plastic spit cup lodged between his legs. His tobacco stream has a certain pattern to it, like drops of rain pattering against your car window, soothing on a summer night.  

Billy promised his family he would quit smoking but no one dares dispute his irrational argument that chewing tobacco is healthy. Billy is one of those, “when the good Lord is ready, he’ll take me” kind of people—a man of  faith. A man not afraid of death. 

The bushes rattle again as the unidentifiable noise becomes louder. An animal’s desperate tone  reminds me of The Lion King, which my kids have now viewed 250 times. 

Billy sits in his truck, paralyzed from a tractor accident that occurred months ago. He has worked over the last forty-five years as a farmer, alligator trapper, fish and wildlife officer, and for the government. The rumor is he was named after Billy the Kid. 

Billy’s thick shock of white hair spreads out under a tired-looking straw cowboy hat that he claims to have owned since his teenage years. It’s been patched up a few times after winding up in the jaws of a Florida crocodile along with Billy’s head—or so the story goes. He’s not someone caught up years back in the “Urban Cowboy” look, but I doubt he has anything personal against John Travolta. Billy’s definitely not a “Saturday Night Fever” guy either.

When he shakes my hand, I feel the intensity of a powerful man whose strong presence commands respect. His injuries—and the missing fingers from a previous alligator bite—seem mere flesh wounds to him. Billy may be unable to use his legs but he does not consider it a handicap. He is the strongest man I have ever met. 

The deep growl blasting from behind the nearby palmetto bushes intensifies. Billy asks again, “Steve, ARE you two going or not?” This time, his voice is humorless.

My voice cracks as I ask a question to which I already know the answer. “Billy, you OK here by yourself?”

He chuckles, “That’s funny! I got my shotgun, my Tennessee Moonpies, and my Gator Jerky. Why would I need either of you?… Now GET GOING, OK?”

Gary and I answer in unison, “Yes sir, yes sir,” as if he’s our commanding officer. It’s not a genuine question, but a thinly disguised order. The terror gripping my guts is much stronger than curiosity yet I can’t show weakness. My heart pounds through my shirt. Flight is not an option so I guess we are about to fight.

I think back to how we got ourselves into this mess.

& & &

Gary and I accepted this invitation from Billy, a prospective client, to meet him and his boys on a Saturday morning without an actual understanding of what he was inviting us to do. We both know it’s a test, but practicing trial law requires teamwork and sometimes that means leaving your comfort zone. 

Billy is considering hiring us, two thirty-something lawyers with a new law firm, full heads of black hair (which in my case is temporary), and a commitment to help our community as well as our clients. Besides, we aren’t just city lawyers ...We are a hometown, nearly homegrown law firm, and we fight for justice, but it’s usually in a courtroom.

It’s an important decision for Billy and for us, as the damages are immeasurable. Billy’s injury occurred while helping his neighbors move a 1000-pound round bale of hay. When the forklift failed, the bale fell, landing on Billy’s head, causing a spinal cord injury from his mid-back down to his toes. 

Billy knows we are not Rolex-wearing lawyers who boast of massive settlements, but we explain we’ve handled similar cases and achieved excellent results. He asks questions without emotion, as if he is discussing an automobile purchase, or the best time to pick blueberries. 

We will never be the airbrushed attorneys smiling on massive billboards holding oversized checks to show our client has won the lottery. Clients should not be trophies for display. There is no check large enough to return feeling to Billy’s lower body. But I have no doubt we will do an excellent job. We know how to fight. 

When Billy asks about hobbies, we talk about college football, fishing, and our adventure trips skiing, whitewater rafting, and doing long treacherous mountain hikes. When he asks about hunting, I explain my experience consists of freezing my ass off in a Tallahassee tree stand, and walking through the woods looking for something to shoot without ever shooting anything. 

Billy does not seem overwhelmed, but asks, “What are you boys doing Saturday?” 

Gary and I glance at each other, understanding we are doing whatever Billy wants us to do.

Before we can answer, Billy interjects, “Some of us are meeting up at the Cape (Cape Canaveral near Titusville) Saturday morning before sunrise. Why don’t you meet us and we can spend some time together?” 

Boom! I respond without thinking, “That sounds great, Billy. Just let us know where and when.” 

Later, Gary reminds me, “Steve, we’re scheduled to play tennis with those new doctors on  Saturday. They invited us to their private club which requires tennis whites. We already said yes and it’s good for business.”

“Fuck,” the word escapes before my brain can stop it. “I can’t believe those snobs require whites. That’s ridiculous. It’s not Wimbledon …. No way I would join that club.They don’t even allow Jews or blacks to become members. Or women. Well, we can wear our tennis clothes when we meet Billy. He can’t expect us to wear suits, can he?” 

Gary agrees, “Tennis clothes work.”

On Saturday morning, Gary picks me up well before dawn, driving his gray 1988 Honda Accord. The Honda, like my own Toyota Camry, is a car of choice for young aspiring professionals still living on an associate’s salary. The next step will be family minivans or BMWs. My father says buying a German Car helps Nazis and Americans should buy American. Funny, since he drives a Mazda, made in Japan. Remember Pearl Harbor? His knowledge of history has always been selective.                       

Neither of us talks much during the drive until we look at each other and ask the same question. 

“Hey, do you know what we are actually hunting?”

Our only instructions are to meet at a Circle-K convenience store near Cape Canaveral. It’s still dark when we arrive, but the lot is crowded with oversized pickups, each lifted about twenty feet off the ground with tires the size of Gary’s Honda. No foreign trucks here, just good ol’ Fords, Chevrolets, and Dodges.

The trucks have cages in the back with angry dogs inside. Not those designer dogs women carry in their purses, yapping like my next door neighbor’s toy poodle doodle mixed with mini-dachshund and chihuahua. She claims the breed has a name but this is the same person who is no longer recognizable because she’s had over fifty plastic surgeries. I don’t get it. You can only lift a face so many times before it’s no longer a face.

I will learn later the caged dogs are Rhodesian Ridgebacks, bred to hunt lions. There are four or five cowboys standing outside the store, leaning against their trucks. The cowboys are laughing and several nod in our direction. Everyone except us has a cheek filled with chew. A symphony of spit hissing into plastic cups can be heard as they finish their coffees and super-duper sized morning sodas while sizing us up.

We step out of the Honda and begin walking towards the store.

A large red-haired man with massive hands, a black Stetson hat, brown leather cowboy boots, and a large buck knife peering out from a sheath attached to his belt approaches. He smiles, “You two must be Billy’s lawyers. If y’all are lookin’ for tennis courts, there ain’t none in these parts.” I smile back and can hear laughter between spits coming from where the others lean against their trucks. 

Despite the scorching steam room humidity, everyone except us wears the uniform: long-sleeve flannel shirt, Lee or Wrangler jeans, heavy work or cowboy boots. No Calvin Kleins here. Designer jeans might be more humiliating than tennis shorts. We introduce ourselves and wait for instructions.

Someone extends a pouch of chewing tobacco in our direction, “Counselor, you need a chew?”

“No thanks, maybe later.”

Like when I’m dead. The one time I tried it, I puked and spent an hour trying to wash the crap out of my teeth. 

The red-haired man says,” Billy’s waitin’ at the front gate. We’ll drop you off with him and then you’ll follow us until we hear the dogs baying.” 

I nod in agreement but have no idea what he means.

He must sense my confusion. “We left some cur dogs out here last weekend. They can survive with no trouble. They’re smaller than the Ridgebacks but more aggressive.” 

I look over at Gary. Neither of us dares ask questions. I have never heard of that breed but don’t think they compete at the Westminster dog show. One of the men tells us about Red’s recent tryout for “American Gladiators.” They told him he was too rough.

Although I don’t watch the show, I am “lawyerly empathetic.” Too rough for “American Gladiators”? Now that’s a higher level of badassness.

Our new friends drive us to the gate where we meet Billy and climb up into his truck. He has a ready smile; directing Gary to the back seat while I hop in front. Billy’s wheelchair, a sober reminder of his injury, is positioned behind him on the back seat. We settle in while he follows the others.

It’s quiet as we drive slowly along a single-lane restricted roadway, which is only used by those with permission from the government. It’s federal land and part of Cape Canaveral. Billy explains he has a pass allowing him to remove problem animals from the property.

I jump on this, “What kind of problem animals?”

He begins to explain but is interrupted as the trucks pull over and the men jump out. Big Red comes over and shakes Billy’s hand. He sticks his head in the open window and glances at us, “You boys comin’?”

The other cowboys free the dogs from their cages and the animals take off, leaping off the backs of the trucks and disappearing into the dense brush. We hear growling and grunts coming from the bushes. Billy pulls up under the trees and kills the truck. Neither Gary nor I know what to do. Big Red has disappeared along with everyone else. I climb out and step outside, almost falling as I navigate the steep drop to the ground. I lean up against the truck and stare into the woods. What are we doing here? Damn heart is pounding.

The branches are moving and I’m wondering where they are going. The ground begins to vibrate as the sound of hooves hitting the dirt gets closer. It’s not an earthquake but even the trees seem afraid. Billy encourages us to head into the woods. 

Gary opens the passenger door and jumps down. Both of us feel like idiots in our tennis outfits. Since it’s the nineties, our shorts are grossly short, white, and tight. My new Stan Smith tennis shoes, white leather kind with green striping, were purchased two days ago at a specialty shop. I’m sure the cowboys are impressed. Gary walks next to me, where I am bent over, retying my shoes for the tenth time. He whispers as if some enemy soldier might hear him, “C’mon—we have to get going. Stop stalling.” 

My mind’s third voice, the irritating one that keeps you from disaster keeps saying, what are you doing, you could die, you are no woodsman. You are a desk jockey…

We look up at Billy, sitting high in the truck, who probably thinks we are afraid to run into dense woods and confront deranged animals, deadly rattlesnakes, maybe a Florida Panther and the lunatic, killer American Gladiators. Not afraid, just terrified.

He says again, “Get going or you’ll never catch them other fellas. Sounds like they found some big boars.”

I look at Gary and nervously joke, “Did ‘Billy the Kid’ say boars? Like wild boars?”

Gary laughs and mouths back, “I think that’s what he said.”

We walk forward towards the palmetto and small trees packed so tightly together we can barely see in front of us. After a few steps Stan Smith sinks in the muck. Shit! I pull my leg up and hear the sucking sound of my new, formerly white sneaker being freed from the mud. We proceed gingerly through the brush, trying not to get stuck or scratched. The stink is overwhelming and I begin to complain when the world explodes. “Holy shit!” I scream to no one in particular. 

During those last moments, my mind replays the old television show, Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom,” and I can hear the calm, reassuring voice of Marlin Perkins  as he sits in the the safety of his jeep and instructs his assistant, “Now, watch as Jim is going to enter the woods, capture a 100-foot python with one hand, then stick his other hand in a giant crocodile’s mouth to save the small villager being swallowed. But first, this commercial from Mutual of Omaha. Don’t try this at home folks.”

Without warning, a boar—a boar!—breaks through the brush, tusks pointed in our direction. At first I thought it was an elephant, but we are in Cape Canaveral, not Cape Verde. I’m not sure what the animal is thinking but it’s probably not intimidated by my skinny white legs. 

We’ve all experienced one of those singular moments when your mind debates reality as each second moves in slow motion before time stops. If we survive, the story will be told so often to future generations, the actual significance will get downgraded to an urban legend—or just pure baloney. Is baloney ham? My kids will think it’s hilarious to picture us chasing or being chased by boars but may never believe it’s true … And it’s about to get worse.

The sad truth is I’ve never seen a real wild boar. Now there are actual tusks aimed at my bony, butt. They aren’t even respectable tusks. Given a choice, I would prefer a nobler death by an elephant‘s ivory or rhino horn. Or even that running with the bulls thing that Hemingway writes about. No matter, my body braces because this will hurt. One of God’s creatures, my ass! (which is about to get speared). This is the ugliest animal on earth. In a few seconds, those stubby, crooked boar tusks will puncture my skin and the nasty pig will try to drag me away

The smell alone—a combination of rotten eggs and fresh piss—almost knocks me down. A crazed animal is not going to negotiate with lawyers. There was an earlier mention of dogs, and rope, but that’s not helpful. The screams startle me as several hogs have doubled back and are running in circles. 

I turn and shout at Gary, “Run! The boars are headed back at us!”

We both jump out of the way. Two lion-killing Rhodesian Ridgebacks chase the largest one deeper into the woods. Four cowboys, imposing as Supreme Court Justices, order us to follow. No time for argument or an appeal. The ones carrying buck knives and shotguns get to make the rules. 

The dogs have pinned one of the boars down, but to get there, we have to walk across a log, and then through a small stream. Billy warned of alligators and snakes but I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. My mind sees gators plopping from the bank into the stream and imagines thick water moccasins that turn out to be tree branches. 

We manage to cross without catastrophic injury and watch two dogs ripping off pieces of the boar’s ear with their teeth. Big Red appears and dives onto the pile like he’s making a game-saving tackle and wraps the rope around the screaming boar’s feet. He manages to avoid the tusks—and the teeth—of the unhappy animal.

Red steps back, glancing over at me, as I try to avoid his gaze.  

He points his knife toward the screaming hog, now lying tied on the ground accepting his fate while the dogs stare down, one still chewing on a piece of the hog’s ear. The hog begins to settle down, taking deep breaths between ragged demonic grunts.

Red yells toward me. “Steve, you gonna tote him out”? 

What the fuck is he asking me? It doesn’t sound good. I consider my options here. The rest of the group quiets, entertained by my confusion, wondering whether I have the courage to touch this foul thing. 

“Sure, I’ll tote him.” What does that mean anyway?

He laughs along with the others. ”I was kidding. You lawyers are too smart and pretty to carry one of these big boys out.”

Ah, tote means carry. 

Toting out a live thrashing boar does not seem smart. But practicing law in the arena means getting bloodied, and sometimes beaten, but more often, there is victory. Just getting in the arena is a win.

I move towards the boar.

Big Red looks with amazement. “I wasn’t serious. Billy will shoot me if you get hurt. Are you sure you want to do this? You could get bitten, and these things carry disease.”

I stare at the animal, then at Red. “No problem, I got this.” 

The boar is now being handled by one of the cowboys who walks over and prepares to help place the disgusting thing on my shoulder. It’s breathing hard, but it’s not one of the massive, three-hundred pounders that came charging at us through the palmetto brush. 

He instructs me, “Now, keep its mouth on the far side of your shoulder, away from your ears. They got huge teeth, and lots of them. You don’t want him to bite you.” No kidding. “He’s tied up but he’s gonna thrash before he settles down. And go slow, we’ll be right behind you.”

I look at the boar’s mouth, teeth jutting out from every direction, some the size of steak knives. The animal could use a good dental cleaning … I just don’t want him to use my skinny legs as floss.

My heart pounds as I try to think like a cowboy, not like a lawyer, overanalyzing the facts and reviewing the risk. Just do it. 

Still, it’s for the cause—for Billy. My mind begins to think about how the headlines might read and how the story could help our reputation as lawyers willing to take on the Goliaths. “Jewish Lawyer Carried Off by Non-Kosher Ham.” Is there such a thing as kosher ham?

Or maybe some kind of documentary. They say bad publicity is better than none but that’s some theory created to make you feel better when you do something stupid. Like hunting boar in tennis whites.  

Both Gary and I try to tote the unhappy boar. When the cowboy places it on my shoulder, I sense its breath near my ear and feel the vibration of two pounding hearts. I manage less than ten feet before the thing thrashes and drops like a boulder, plopping into the muck. The cowboys laugh and decide we’re pretty good toters for city lawyers. My Bjorn Borg Fila tennis shirt now laced with the putrid stink and unidentifiable boar fluids will not make it to the country club.

Billy waits for us, binoculars in hand. He smiles, “You boys ready to come back out next Saturday? I saw you toting that animal and you need to practice. Give it another shot?”

I look at Gary, grimace, and then lie, “Of course Billy, whatever it takes.”

He laughs, tobacco hanging from his teeth, “Good answer, I have no more questions … spit …you boys are alright for city lawyers…..” 

& & &

Thirty years later, we have helped Billy’s children, grandchildren, and by now, his great grandchildren. However, we have not done any more hog hunting. Big Red remains a close friend but never did make it onto “American Gladiators.” 

Connecting  with clients is called networking. Hog hunting is called friendship. We know Billy, long gone, watches us from hog heaven, and calls us his friends, not just his lawyers. 

Gary and I continue to practice law, but have learned to ask more questions.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Steven Eichenblatt 2024