It was a quiet Sunday morning when I decided to go on a solo hike through the hills near my family’s farm. The air was fresh, filled with the smell of dew-drenched grass and wildflowers. I needed some time away from the noise of everyday life, and there was something healing about walking among trees and letting nature guide your thoughts. But I never expected to stumble upon a creature that would change the course of my entire day—maybe even my life.
As I followed a narrow path through the brush, something small and pink caught my eye. I thought it was a plastic bag at first, blown by the wind and tangled in the underbrush. But then it moved.
I crouched down to get a closer look. There, trembling and squealing softly, was a piglet—no larger than a loaf of bread. It had patches of dirt on its skin, scratches on its legs, and a panicked look in its beady little eyes. My heart clenched. This tiny creature was clearly lost, scared, and most likely hungry.
At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked around, half expecting to see a mother pig or a nearby farm, but there was nothing but trees and shrubs in every direction. I waited in silence for a few minutes, listening for sounds of other animals, but all I heard was birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the wind.
I took off my hoodie and gently wrapped the piglet inside. It didn’t resist much—just gave a few whimpers before relaxing slightly in the warmth of the fabric. I could feel its tiny heart pounding through the hoodie. “Don’t worry, little one,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
As I walked back home with the piglet in my arms, my mind was racing. What would I do with it? Where did it come from? Was it legal to keep a piglet? Should I call animal control?
Back at the farm, I set up a makeshift pen using an old dog crate and lined it with soft blankets. I gave the piglet a shallow bowl of warm milk and mashed banana, hoping it would eat. At first, it just stared up at me with tired, wary eyes, but eventually it began to sniff the food and then lapped at the milk. It was a relief to see it eat. That’s when I realized—I couldn’t just give it up. Not yet.
I named the piglet “Willow,” after the trees that shaded the spot where I’d found her. The first few days were all about rest, warmth, and gentle care. I cleaned her wounds with antiseptic and gave her space to adjust. She was cautious at first, always watching me from the corner of her tiny pen, but after a few days she began to recognize me. Her little tail would twitch excitedly when I approached, and she even started making soft grunts when she wanted attention.
Word spread quickly around town that I’d found a piglet in the wild. Some neighbors speculated that she had escaped from a nearby farm, while others believed she might have been abandoned by a wild boar mother that couldn’t care for her. I checked with local authorities and nearby farms, but no one reported a missing piglet. So, for the time being, Willow was mine.
Raising a piglet was no easy task. I read every article I could find on pig care. I learned that pigs are highly intelligent, emotional creatures that form strong bonds with their caregivers. That certainly seemed true with Willow. She followed me around the house like a puppy, snorted with curiosity at everything new, and even learned to sit for treats. She loved belly rubs and would flop over dramatically every time I scratched her favorite spot.
As weeks passed, Willow grew stronger and more confident. She explored the garden, rolled in the mud pit I made just for her, and even made friends with our old dog, Max. The two were an unlikely pair, but they played together like siblings, chasing each other and sharing naps in the sun.
But it wasn’t all sunshine. Some people thought I was making a mistake by keeping her. “You’re not going to eat her, are you?” one person asked with a half-joking tone that didn’t sit right with me. Others warned me that pigs got big—really big—and that I’d regret it when she outgrew my backyard. But I couldn’t imagine giving her up now. Willow wasn’t just a piglet anymore; she was part of my life, part of my heart.
As she grew, I started building a proper enclosure for her, complete with a small shelter, a mud wallow, and plenty of room to roam. It took work and money, but seeing her happy and thriving made it all worth it. She had gone from a helpless, frightened creature in the woods to a joyful, curious soul full of life.
One evening, I sat beside her pen, watching the sunset as she snuffled in the dirt. She came over, leaned her weight against my leg, and let out a soft grunt. It was her way of saying “thank you,” I think. In that moment, I realized that finding Willow had brought something back into my life that I didn’t even know I’d lost—a sense of purpose, of connection, of love without conditions.
Months have passed since that fateful hike, and Willow is no longer the tiny piglet I found in the wild. She’s grown into a healthy, 100-pound pig with a big personality and an even bigger heart. She’s still a handful—chewing on shoes, knocking over flowerpots, stealing apples—but I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
People come by to meet her now, especially kids. I share her story whenever I can, hoping to spread awareness about animal welfare and how sometimes, rescuing an animal can rescue you right back.
So, when people ask me what happened after I found a stray piglet in the wild, I smile and say, “And then… I made a new best friend.”
