CONTENT WARNING: Animal Attack, Animal Death, Gun Violence (Child attacked by pet boar, which is then killed with a shotgun)

I almost got eaten by a boar as a kid. My cousins kept pigs, and I was staying with them for a few weeks. They sent me out to feed one of the sows, Jasmine, who was generally known to have a gentle nature, but one of the boars apparently felt he wanted human meat and burst through his pen door.

He rammed my legs, and somehow I ended up holding onto the sow’s pen. (It’s unclear if I unlatched her pen or not; my Cousin J says I did “in a survival haze”, but I don’t remember doing it.) I ran — which was stupid because it turns out that a boar can definitely outrun a seven-year-old.

I got hit again from behind and sprawled on the barn floor. I covered my face and was sure I was gonna die. Then, I heard this noise, and even almost twenty years later, let me tell you, it was a scary noise.

I uncovered my face, and Jasmine was in front of me, making the noise I’d heard with her mouth “foaming” — not like rabies but still scary-looking, like a snarling dog.

Cousin J ran in and, without hesitation, grabbed a shotgun while my aunt picked me up. I kept screaming not to hurt Jasmine because she didn’t “do it”.

I was carried off, and I heard three shots. At that point, I don’t remember much other than screaming and crying in my granddad’s lap while my aunt patched me up and kept promising me it was okay.

Later that evening, Cousin J brought Jasmine up to the porch so I could see she was unharmed. But it took three shots from a shotgun to put that d*** boar down.

Jasmine’s “reward” for her bravery was her own pen closer to the house — mostly so I could safely feed her myself — and the one and only boar piglet from her litter (she was pregnant) was made the new boar while she kind of got retired and made into a pet.

My uncle said he couldn’t let “our hero mama” be processed.

But I was a wreck for days. And my mother was furious because Cousin J and his brothers had been told a few times not to send me into the pig barn by myself. But they took it as, “Oh, it’s fine; she knows only to touch Jasmine,” not, “If that boar breaks its door, he can eat the second grader.”

We somehow chose a name for our second daughter that was close in spelling to her cousin’s name. I swear, my sister-in-law never told me it was her dream name for her child. Our child was born two years before and named Macy; our niece was Maiizelen, nicknamed Maizie. 

My child’s earliest memories were showing up at the two or so family events, and one of the cousins saying, “Did you know there are two Maizie [Our Last Name]s? I like the other one better.” There’s a back story about teen marriage and ugly divorce with the cousins’ parents, but it’s not important.

We brought up this behavior with the family (again, another back story).

Sister-In-Law: “They’re just children!”

Me: “You’re in your twenties; you know better.”

The cousins also used to lock the child of their father’s second wife in the closet at Grandma’s house.

Fast forward to Macy being twenty-three. It’s Christmas morning. The cousins have been pregaming for the 10:00 am brunch at Grandma’s, and they’ve brought along their red Solo cups. One cousin turns his cup away when Macy walks up to him, but not before she sees “#RealMaizie[Our Last Name]”. He’s embarrassed. So, the cousins have been pregaming by making fun of Macy once again.  

No surprise, Maizie was not invited to Macy’s wedding at the extremely nice venue — a thirty-fifth-floor private club in a major city with a live band, an open bar, and a flower wall for Instragam photos. But she did comment on Macy’s Instagram photo, which [Sister-In-Law] shared. 

Maizie: “Must be nice to be invited to a family event.”

Macy responded with a request for her aunt to take down the image, as well as:

Macy: “I don’t know why you would ever expect to be invited since my earliest memories of you were being bullied.”

One time, my cousin was quietly reading the rules for some game he had bought.

Cousin: *Suddenly* “[My Name] goes first!”

Me: “What? Why?”

Cousin: “The rules say the player most likely to commit murder goes first!”

I was lowkey offended by him not hesitating for a second before declaring me that person, but I was more offended by the fact that everyone else at the table readily agreed to it.

I’m a soft, anxiety-riddled potato of a human! I’m very likely to cry if you raise your voice at me. How am I supposed to commit murder?

A few Thanksgivings ago, my cousin was complaining that she had sold something on eBay but had not yet received the actual payment from the customer, who lived in Turkey. My cousin mentioned sending the customer an email that very morning and then expressed frustration when the customer failed to respond.

Mother: “Well, duh. It’s Thanksgiving. You won’t get an email until tomorrow.”

Me: “Mom, Thanksgiving is an American holiday. They don’t celebrate it in Turkey.”

My mother refused to believe me, and to this day, she still thinks the entire world celebrates Thanksgiving.

I just read a story about helping with spiders, and it reminded me of something that happened when I was fourteen. I had just moved and was living in a basement room. My step-cousin needed to stay somewhere, so he was in the basement… almost a bedroom, except my bedroom opened into it.

I was on the phone with my friend, casually counting the tiny spiders coming out of the ceiling light. I don’t mind spiders much, but my friend and I were concerned when the number got bigger.

Me: “Twenty.”

Friend: “What?”

Me: “Little spiders. It’s okay, just counting.”

We continued the conversation.

Me: “Twenty-five.”

Friend: “…”

Me: “Thirty-five.”

Friend: “Um, maybe that’s a lot.”

Me: “I guess they just hatched.”

I was still calm until…

Me: “Oh, s***! They’re dropping down on strings—”

I hung up. At that point, hundreds of tiny spiders were rapidly gliding down, and I basically rolled out of my room, and suddenly, I was in my cousin’s room shaking and brushing myself off.

Cousin: “What’s up?”

Me: “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He insisted.

Me: “There are spiders in there.”

Cousin: “Ha! That’s all? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

I blocked the door. This guy was being macho because of where he grew up and my being “just a little girl”. He was underestimating.

Me: “Don’t go in there. You can’t handle them.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Somehow, he got past me. He opened the door, immediately started shrieking, and clambered out of there, tripping and falling and hyperventilating up the stairs. He slept in his overly-large truck overnight.

Parents: “What was that about?”

Me: “Spiders. There are many spiders in my room. Too many.”

My stepfather started down the stairs, and I didn’t really try to stop him because I don’t like him.

We heard my stepfather scream, and my mother looked at me.

Me: “Over a thousand spiders, probably. However many are in an egg sack.”

My mom soaked my room in Raid and ruined a bunch of my stuff. My stepfather didn’t talk to me for a few days, as if hearing another man scream and flee wasn’t enough warning.

Over fifteen years later, it’s still funny.