It’s Time to Legalize Pig Racing in Georgia

By Emory Jones

Looking back on it, I may have made a mistake taking my pet pig, Cunningham, to the horse races last week. It seemed like a good idea at the time although my wife, Judy, was bad against it. But then, she’s against any road trip involving pigs. I think that’s just a woman thing.

Anyway, Cunningham was so excited about going that I just couldn’t say no. You see, he has racing in his blood. He won’t brag about it but as a young shoat, he won the NASPIG Triple Crown. That means he came in first in the Sue Wee Stakes, The Running Ham Handicap and the grueling Bacon Crisp Classic. He would have topped even that by winning the Swine Breeders Cup, but the track was muddy that day and he got distracted.

Of course, those events are held in Arkansas, what with pig racing still considered illegal in Georgia and all.

In the end, Judy agreed to let Cunningham tag along as long as we drove to Louisville in separate vehicles and on different weekends. That was fine with Cunningham—he doesn’t like the same kind of radio music Judy does anyway.

Now, if you’ve ever been to Churchill Downs, home of the famous Kentucky Derby, then you know how strict they are about bringing food and such through the gate. Turns out, they have the same policy about pigs.

“Whoa there,” said the gate attendant, keeping in horse racing character. “Is that a pig?”

“You bet your jockey strap,” I said, going along with his racing theme.

“He can’t come in,” said the attendant, a bit rudely.

“Why not?” I asked with unbridled curiosity. “He has a ticket.”

“Manely because he’s a pig,” he said.

I thought “manely” was a stretch, but I let it go. “But you let horses in there, and pigs are smarter than horses.”

When he reached for his starting pistol, Cunningham, not wanting to buck the system, sprinted towards the stables.

I was on the fast track to bribing my way back in, but I didn’t have any ones on me, and since Cunningham sometimes gets in trouble by himself, I bolted after him. It was a good thing, too; when I caught up, he’d already rooted a hole under the fence and had inadvertently wandered onto the track.

His timing couldn’t have been worse either because the starting gate for the first race had just swung open.

When I yelled at Cunningham to run, he heard the herd coming, too, and lit a shuck for the finish line with a dozen horses bearing down on him at a fast pace. The crowd and I both roared as Cunningham finished first by a snout in what the evening paper called the most exciting race since a horse named Sotally Tober ran around the track backward in ’42.

By the time I reached the winner’s circle, Cunningham, not understanding the refinements between horse and pig racing, had eaten half the roses they’d politely hung around his neck.

But it didn’t matter much because, as we shortly discovered, pig racing is considered illegal in Kentucky, too. In fact, one of the racing stewards and two stewardesses took back the half-eaten roses and ordered us off the premises.

We got the last laugh, though. On the way out, Cunningham ran over to one of the horses sunning himself between races and planted a little sign that read, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t giddyap!”

He laughed about that all the way home.

Emory Jones grew up in White County and received an agricultural journalism degree from the University of Georgia. He has written six books including “White County 101” and “Zipping Through Georgia on a Goat-Powered Time Machine.” Emory is known for his humor, love of history and all things Southern – including kudzu which, believe it or not, he has written about extensively. His latest novel, “The Valley Where They Danced” is available on Amazon and Kindle.