Onkel Franz, in a village ceremony replete with suitable pomp and circumstance, was gifted a lucky pig by the mayor of Dörnigheim in the spring of 1966 as he set off on tour. It's worth mentioning, that in the village of 4,000, having Europe’s largest, and most popular, three-ring circus use its hamlet for the troupe's winter-quarter distinguished the community in a most effective and pride-inducing way. The very embodiment of both those qualities was the owner and circus director, our Onkel Franz.
By all accounts, Onkel Franz was an impeccable dresser. Well-tailored suits were his preferred atelier, and a Fedora adorned his head most of the time. His highly groomed black tresses were kept short and combed back carefully, contrasting with his thick moustache which ended abruptly at the apples of his cheeks. He was a presence who left no doubt in anyone’s mind about who was in charge, though this is not to say that he was generally unkind, rather to indicate that he oozed authority as a matter of being. So, he was similarly outfitted on that celebratory day that the mayor handed a downy, pale pink pig over to him, which he received with as much grace as one can imagine when any man is handed a wiggling hog as a special honor in front of his town.
The circus left on tour the next day with the piglet now a fully accepted member of the traveling band. He received care and vittles of high enough quality that, over the ensuing weeks, he outgrew the temporary quarters erected for him. Onkel Franz was therefor approached for instructions about what to do with the nameless swine. “Put it with Otto, they’re from the same family,” he answered without hesitation. And, so it came to be, that the piglet was resettled in the company of Cirkus Althoff’s trained, two-ton Hippopotamus, Otto. Besides the fact that he could follow simple commands, Otto was in every way a typical hippopotamus enjoying passive times in his personal pool for most of the day.
It wasn’t a figment of Onkel Franz’s imagination that pig and hippo were connected familiarly; at the time it was a well-accepted scientific theory. Initially horses were thought to be hippo's closest cousins, perhaps accounting for the name Nielpferd in German, or Nile horse. Later, scientists posited that, in fact, pigs were a closer evolutionary relative of the hippopotamus. Since then, however, modern scientists have decided the giant animals are actually most closely related to whales. Though this distinction is not germane to the subsequent events, it is offered as defense of the logic behind cohabitating Otto and the ever growing piglet.
No one remembers much about the odd couple’s reaction to each other as a result of their initial meeting, nor did anyone venture a contradiction to Onkel Franz about the wisdom of combining the two. Days, or maybe even weeks, passed uneventfully when at last, the circus had reached a new town and the show was enjoying a packed audience nightly. The artists and crew were in high spirits, for that reason, as well as the anticipation of the feast that would take place later that evening on Easter Sunday.
Before the shows, in that town as in all others, the animals were on display for an additional up-charge on the entrance ticket so that the audience could see, and smell, the animals up close. This is how it happened that hundreds of men, women, and children were strolling among the wagons, animal pens and stalls that infamous day. In one of those instants, that begin as happiness personified, but ended quite differently, children urged their parents with chubby fingers pointed in the direction of wondrous animals and families munched on indulgent treats. There was excitement and anticipation in the air, thick with the wonder of what will be seen later in the ring. In one tenth of a second all that gaiety halted, reversed course, and turned into almost incomprehensible ill.
A murderous, ear-drum shattering, half-scream-half-squeal, pierced the sunny holiday with a sense of desperate horror that hits a crowd whose eyes have not landed on the source, but who know their darting gaze will fall on someone, or something dying in pain. That instinct, however, could not have prepared anyone for the sight that they would consequently behold, nor for the length of time that it would take for the unfortunate event to unfold.
There, skewered on Otto’s lower right tusk, very much alive and without a shred of hope, was the fattened piglet writhing and shrieking in the most pitiful reverberation ears could interpret. It wasn’t long before every member of the circus was running in whatever momentary state they had found themselves in during the microseconds before the blood-curdling ruckus began, dressed or partially so, with a portion of a meal in hand, or not, to the source of the tragic cacophony.
Every bit as awful as it sounded, yet without obvious resolution, a shaky panic set in, not least of all within the patrons whose only aim was to treat their families to a fun-filled day at the circus. A conclusion was of monumental importance and without any other immediately evident options to his avail, and time having passed in agonizing slow motion, Bubi the animal trainer, went to his wagon to collect the loaded gun. Usually called upon for lions or bears, on this day he aimed his firearm at the suffering porcine instead. He ended not only the misery of the hog, but the icy terror in the spectators’ souls as well in one swift instant. Silence befell the crowd, then the sound of heavy breathing and sniffles took over.
The shrieking had ended. The pig was dead. Otto was still, as he had been all the previous days, except for the attack itself, which nobody saw. While the horror of sounds was over, the terrors of what could be seen had not yet resolved themselves. The piglet remained where it was when it last breathed his final breath, impaled on the hippo's great tooth, slowly, steadily dripping blood in a thin, punctuated stream down Otto's hulking chin. The stunned public began trying to console each other. The circus people started to regulate their breathing again. Some meandered away to resume what they were doing before the murder unfolded.
At that moment, Onkel Franz arrived on the scene in a foaming fury, screaming, “What complete idiot decided to put these two animals in the same pen together?”
“But, Onkel Franz, that was you who said to put them together,” Bubi protested.
“I would never have done such a completely moronic thing in my life!” He stood there, perusing the crowd, looking for someone to blame. The only eyes that met his reflected shock and horror, and something else. Was that sincerity? Innocence? He shook off that nagging thought, and stormed off in the direction of his wagon, disgusted.
Now, Onkel Franz never revealed in the many years after this, whether he ever remembered mandating this particular boarding arrangement. Suffice it to say, though, he didn't take credit for the unexpected pork banquet that the lions enjoyed later that day either.
