Oregon Tavern Age: Pig Farmer

I wasn’t going to write on Oregon Tavern Age life anymore. After tens of thousands of words and over two decades, it was time to retire the subject. Sure, the stories kept coming, but I had put my foot down. No more imbibing!

But today, I fall off the wagon because…well…

I was sitting at a bar in OTA country watching a golf tournament, drinking a free beer because I had answered the trivia question correctly (William Henry Harrison), and alternately talking to an Elvis impersonator I had recently met here, about his 2400-piece collection of Elvis memorabilia he has stashed in a cabin up in the woods, when an OTA woman walked inside. She was large and had pink streaks in her short blonde hair. She wore a 12-inch Bowie knife in a rhinestone encrusted scabbard. The joint’s house service dog ran up to her and gave her a weird sniffing and circling. The woman, as she petted the dog, said, “Must be my pigs. I’m a pig farmer.”

She played with the dog a bit, then went up to the bar, to my left, a few feet away. She ordered a whiskey and coke in a pint glass, waited for it, paid, then moseyed over to the video slots.

I smelled pig as she left.