Musing: Three Little Pigs (Reimagined)

Once upon a time, Wally, the Big Bad Wolf, marched along a trail searching for his dinner. His stomach growled and rumbled, his last hearty meal a distant memory. He searched high and low for prey, but his luck ran thin. As the sun drifted lower in the sky, he resigned himself to another hungry night and focused his search to a warm place to sleep.

He came upon a sprawling field and spied a house in the distance. A smile crept across his face. Some fool constructed the house from straw. He’d heard the legends and knew what was to come.

He bounced happily along the path to the front door, whistling his little wolfy tune. With his nostrils flaring, he sniffed the air and sensed a presence inside. A check of the mailbox revealed the occupant’s name—Peter Pig. With his furry paw, he knocked thrice. His voice boomed with confidence. “Little pig! Little pig! Let me in! Let me in!”

A shuffling came from within. A shadow passed across the peephole poked through the straw. A squawk of surprise erupted, followed by a quaking voice. “No! No! No! Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

Wally Wolf ran his claws across the straw wall. Thoughts of ham bounced in his mind. He wiped away a string of drool dangling from his chin. “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”

No response came, so Wally inhaled deeply. He huffed. He puffed. He blew with all his might.

Nothing happened.

The wolf dropped to his knees, faint from his efforts, and muttered, “I don’t understand. How is this straw house still standing?”

A quiet voice squeaked from behind the door. “Silly wolf, I studied the crafts of the Pawnees and other tribes, Native Americans who lived on the Great Plains and built their houses from straw and mud. They survived the harsh winters and blowing winds. Thanks to that knowledge passed on to me, this house will last for years. So scurry along, little wolf, and leave me alone.”

Wally Wolf, not quite feeling like the Big Bad Wolf, stumbled to his feet, brushed the dirt from his fur, and turned with a huff. He marched away, grumbling at his stroke of luck. A pig who had studied ancient building techniques. Pshaw.

He slept that night in the woods and woke the next morning hungry and cold. He trudged deeper into the forest along the shadowy path, searching for a snack among the gnarled roots of the trees, but hunting was scarce. As he was losing hope, he turned a corner and spied a house built in a clearing. Through the filtered sunlight, he saw its composition was little more than sticks.

The bounce returned to his stride, and he marched up to the front door and eyed the name on the mailbox—Patty Pig. He sniffed the air, confirmed Patty was home, and brought his paw down on the wooden door three times. “Little pig! Little pig! Let me in! Let me in!”

The clomping of hooves across a wooden floor announced the approaching Patty. She slid back a portal no bigger than her eye, gasped, and slammed it shut again. “No! No! No! Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

Wally Wolf dragged the nails of his claws down the door, leaving deep grooves carved in its face. With the sounds of frying bacon and sausage rattling in his brain, he bellowed, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”

No response came, so Wally inhaled deeply. He huffed. He puffed. He blew with all his might.

Nothing happened.

He crumbled to the wooden floor of the porch, a clump announcing his fall. He gasped for air. “I don’t understand. How is this stick house still standing?”

Patty’s voice, confident and strong, came through the door. “Silly wolf, I’ve studied the ancient art of building for years. We notched the wood to form strong joints, lashed the boughs together tight, and chinked the gaps to strengthen the bond. This sturdy house will last for years. So scurry along, little wolf, and leave me alone.”

Wally shook his head in disbelief, pulled himself upright on his paws, and drifted down the forest path. Nothing was going as planned, and he grew hungrier by the minute. That night, he found a spot at the edge of the forest and slept fitfully through the night.

When he awoke the next morning, he spied a brick house in the middle of a carefully manicured lawn. A bronze sign on the gate announced the residence of Percy Pig.

Wally held his head in his paws. He’d failed to blow down a straw house. He’d failed to blow down a stick house. What hope did he have to blow down a brick house?

But what other choice did he have? He was growing weak from hunger. He needed to make one last attempt.

He stumbled and bumbled his way up the brick path until he reached the door. With little strength left, he pressed the doorbell three times rather than knock. “Little pig! Little pig! Let me in! Let me in!”

As the chimes fell silent, the clacking sound of hooves across a polished floor announced the approach of Percy Pig. A camera whirred from above the door and focused on Wally. A tinny voice came from the speaker. “No! No! No! Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

Wally looked around, weighed his options, and decided a bluff was his only play. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”

No response came. Wally loosed a sigh and inhaled as deeply as he was able. He blew with all his might.

The mortar crumbled and flaked away. Bricks shifted. The wall buckled and fell in a loud crash. Percy Pig stood with his mouth agape a few feet away. “I don’t understand. How did it fall?”

The wolf scratched his head in wonder, too stunned to react. “I don’t know. What ancient civilization did you study to learn how to lay brick?”

Percy’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t. I went to business school. With all the money I earned, I hired Bubba’s Discount Builders to save a few dollars. He said he knew what he was doing.”

Wally’s tongue ran across his lips, his teeth shining in the day’s glistening light. “Sounds like he lied.”

Percy took a step back. “What are you thinking, Mr. Wolf?”

With a howl of delight, Wally replied. “Barbeque, my friend.”

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Gratuitous Dog Photo: A Supersonic Boom

When Landon gets moving with his zoomies around the yard, he can reach lift-off velocity. The paws leave the earth, the fur ruffles, and flight can be achieved.

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Until Next Monday

May you resist the huffing and puffing of someone trying to knock you down.

If you have questions or thoughts, drop them in the comments below.

See you next Monday.