Caught between a Rock and a Hard Pig
By Emory Jones
Ever since I gave my pet pig Cunningham a pet rock for Christmas (he named the rock Hudson), he’s wanted that little nugget to see Rock City up near Chattanooga. He has, ever since he saw that big promotion someone inadvertently painted on a barn outside Bell Buckle on our way home from the horse races.
Giving Cunningham his own pet was a rock-solid idea because it taught him responsibility. Not a lot, mind you because he’s a pig. Also, since rocks don’t have to be fed, watered or neutered, it’s not all that hard. Still, Cunningham takes his rock on walks from time to time and dresses him up in one of my old socks.
Cunningham especially likes to take rock Hudson on field trips. We have pictures of his rock in front of famous places like the county line sign and the gold miner statue. The best one is of his rock skipping across Smith Lake.
People will be debating the merits of companion rocks for years, and while my wife won’t let me have one, a pet rock is perfect for a pet pig. I’ll admit, rocks can be hard to handle in the wild, but once domesticated and with the rough edges knocked off, you’ll never have a more solid buddy or a better friend in a fight.
I’m not sure why Cunningham wanted to take his pet rock to Rock City, but I suppose he feels that since rock Hudson is country rock, it would do him good to see how city rocks live. Plus, I expect Cunningham wanted to see the place himself as much as anything.
When the big day came, I packed up some ham sandwiches, and with rock Hudson and Cunningham in the truck’s front seat, we headed north. Cunningham had made his stone a little stocking cap out of my old sock, but it was such a warm day, I convinced him to leave it at home.
After we parked in the parking lot at Rock City, I looked around for a rock to scotch the wheel but, ironically, couldn’t find one.
At the gate, I asked, “How much is a ticket?”
“Is that a pig?” the man asked back, pointing at Cunningham.
“It is,” I said proudly. “That’s my pet pig.”
“What’s in his mouth?” he asked, still pointing
“That’s his pet rock, Hudson. He wants to take a picture of it looking out over those seven states you mention in the brochure.”
“Pigs aren’t allowed in Rock City,” the man said rather testily.
“It doesn’t mention that in the brochure,” I answered politely.
“I’m calling security,” he said, picking up a red phone.
Sensing trouble, Cunningham charged through the gate. I had no choice but to follow and, just as the brochure promised, we ran through incredible rock formations, magical caves, and breathtaking views.
The brochure also says you can experience Rock City at your own pace. Unfortunately, my pace turned out to be a dead run chasing a squealing pig carrying a pet rock. Cunningham gained ground on the swinging bridge, although I nearly had him when he stopped to see those seven states. But he got away and slid through Fat Man’s Squeeze like a greased pig.
I finally caught up when he clattered into a pile of red and black birdhouses at the gift shop. At that point, I nonchalantly bought a piece of fudge and headed on back to the truck.
All and all, it was a fun day, although we never did get that picture.
Oh well, as Grandaddy always said, “it’s something all the time.”
