Bdelygmia (del-ig’-mi-a): Expressing hatred and abhorrence of a person, word, or deed.
It made me sick watching him scratch his dog behind the ears. It was a boar hound, bred to kill or be killed. So far, Pluto had killed 55 boars. He was vicious and his collar was stained with blood. His previous owner, Marlon Spoon, had died from an infected wound on his leg. A boar had grazed him in the ring in a bout at “Imperial Boar Fights,” held every Friday night at the YMCA. It was a tradition in our small town of Boardale, named after the hoards of boars that populated the woods and fields around our little town.
Like I said, every Friday there was a boar vs. human fight at the “Y.” The tradition had begun after WW II when troops returning from the Philippines brought the sport home. Then, our town was named Lilly Dale. It was a kind and gentle place to live. Everybody went to church and liked strawberry ice cream. Then, the troops came home, bringing their short-haired pet boars with their curled tusks and curled tails. It was only a matter of time before the troops started keeping pig dogs and fighting them against boars imported from the Philippines. Half of the boars escaped and engaged in a mating frenzy that drove the population through the roof.
Dogs became passé as boar fighters and people became the boars’ opponents. The boars would go snorting down the sidewalk waving their tusks at pedestrians. That’s when the “Imperial Boar Fights” began. For some reason, people thought they could significantly reduce the boar population by slaughtering them in the ring. Professional boar fighters would do the honors. They would go into the ring with 50 boars at a time that had been trapped that morning. Each boar fighter had a razor-sharp meat cleaver in each hand and would chop up the 50 boars. The boars didn’t have a chance. Their remains were barbecued and fed to poor people.
It was working out until a boar that was named “Choo-Choo” showed up. He was as big as a locomotive. A cleaver couldn’t penetrate his skin. The professional pig fighters started resigning left and right. Choo-Choo showed no mercy. His foot-long tusks put the meat-cleavers to shame. People started calling for peace, and after a series of meetings at the YMCA, peace was proclaimed.
As a matter of population control. The mature boars agreed to have a set number of sucklings made into hot dogs and capicola. In return, the people agreed to feed them boar food and dig and maintain mud pits throughout the woods and fields for their pleasure.
Personally, I hate what they’ve done. All the boars could’ve been wiped out with a few well-targeted drone attacks. On the other hand though, the boar-meat hotdogs are delicious—perfect for family gatherings. And the capicola is like mana from heaven in a Muffuletta or on pizza.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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