Boars Galore

Amidst recent mayhem from a rising river, Vicksburg faced porcine invasion when, literally hog washed from their usual haunts, a troublesome foursome of “large black boars” arrived at a local riverside playground. But these not-so-little piggies didn’t come to swing as high as they could and cry, “Wee, wee, wee.” They came to invade, to conquer. Eventually a dirty dozen feral hogs were shot. An elusive thirteenth seen assaulting “a small deer” escaped. Feral hogs are adept at evading stalkers and hiding their ugly selves despite their size. Often labeled “brilliant,” they’re the smartest wild animal among many who repeatedly outsmart and humiliate man.

The North American swine experience began when Spanish explorers brought domesticated pigs from their European homeland, chitlins for conquistadors. Prior to De Soto’s arrival in Florida in 1539 and subsequent journey around the Gulf of Mexico and inward, we were porkless—no bacon, ham, pork chops. De Soto and fellow explorers scattered pigs through Gulf Coast states, and some escaped, becoming ancestors of feral populations; more arrived with settlers. Though that’s enough fine swine considering their fecundity, Russian wild boars were released for hunters’ delight in New Hampshire (1890), North Carolina near the Tennessee border (1912), California (1925) and Mississippi (1970s). The Wild Ones rambled, seducing naïve domestic pigs, and voila! Feral populations exploded and continue to explode. We can’t defuse them; in primo conditions, their numbers double within four months. In spite of their alarming numbers, releasing sporty wild boars continues today. Squeal! Stop it!

Varmits running hog wild scarcely resemble Porky Pig or Piglet. With longer legs and longer head than domestic pigs, he’s big, averaging four to five feet in length, thirty inches at the shoulder, and 250 pounds. Numbers vary due to climate.

He’s battle ready, girded in a thick hide, spiked coat and “shoulder cape,” his shield of several inches of cartilage and scar tissue from former battles. He’s born to kill. Lowering his head and using modified lower canine teeth, which grow into  3–5 inch  tusks a.k.a. “tushes” (not what ZZ Top means in the song “Tush”), he charges, viciously slashing upward. Upper canines called “whetters” grind lower teeth into lethal spears. He’s an aggressive thug called “dog killer,” a good name for a gangsta rapper. The sow’s a suitable paramour, smaller, shorter tusked, yet ugly. Vicious in maternal mode, Mama charges presumed piglet molesters with jaws agape to inflict wounds in the name of motherhood.

The lovely couple meets when a boar, bored with solitary life, spruces up the best he can when testosterone levels peak as light dips in autumn. Then hoggy goes a courting. Females travel in matriarchal groups with offspring, joining similar groups to form “sounders” of fifty or more. The boar follows his snout to a bevy of sows. Other lusty males simultaneously get similar urges, and all vie for the fairest cloven hoof in the land. Violent battles ensue, with the strongest, most brutal brute ripping competition to shreds to win a romp in the mud with the sow who most smites him. The deed done, he exits in boorish fashion. As soon as he turns his razorback, other males skulk in for a porky orgy. The population explodes once more with a bang. Though lust peaks in autumn, lesser fireworks pop year round. Woe to the ecology. Multitudes of hogs trot among feeding grounds, trampling and rooting up agricultural crops, pastures, lawns, golf courses and cemeteries with long, flexible snouts. They turn wet land near ponds, springs and streams into muck, digging and scratching to a depth of three feet to create wallows, their La-Z-Boy recliners. Scratching their nasty hides against trees, rocks, and fence posts, the hogs leave filthy, hairy, parasite infested mementos and damaged seedlings. Wildlife habitats crumble in the wake of the kings of the wastelands they create.

Digging bottomless pits and yelling “Woo, pig, sooie” like Arkansas sports fans won’t halt the invasion. We opened American gates to the Trojan Pig, messing with Nature’s pork placement. Now we pay. We can’t scare them, we’ve no repellents, most fences are futile, and we can’t starve them since they eat anything from nuts, berries and plants above and below ground; to small livestock and wildlife, dead or alive. Big pig predators are few; we further decrease them by eradicating natives like panthers and wolves. Twenty-three states host established populations, and speculation is hogs have claimed more. Biologists estimate four to five million feral pigs/hogs/boars with sixteen to twenty million cloven hooves trample our nation, costing $800 million in damage. Ouch.

Seventy-five percent of the population must be eliminated annually to halt the trend. What to do? Listen up, hunters. Here’s what you wanted all along: grab guns, bows and ammo and hunt ‘em down, yeehaw! Or set baited traps, but remember you must deal with what you catch. Check hunting laws first; many states have few restrictions but require licenses. Texas even provides “pork choppers” for aerial hunting, which reeks of cheating, but who cares? Online at the touch of your fingertips are tips for hunting or trapping and listings of landowners who offer room, board and a shot at “the poor man’s grizzly.”

Though armed with weapons and courage, be very, very careful in the deep, dark woods. You’ll face brains, brawn, and no scruples, but it’s us versus them! Go forth and do your duty. 

Lucile can’t recall ever inciting hunters but would rather not deal personally with boars whose ilk she knew as a child in the country outside Natchez where free range for hogs was illegally practiced. After researching the feralites, she now knows of Hogzilla, a Georgia boar reputed to be twelve feet long and weigh a thousand pounds, which was an exaggeration from the actual 6.9 to 8.6 feet and eight hundred pounds, and she gives unabashed blessings to anyone decreasing feral hog numbers.