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As Arnold Ziffel awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a small pig. Looking down, he saw cleft hooves at the end of his four stout legs. When he lifted his head he saw there were coarse, white hairs that covered his pale belly

It was no dream. Arnold’s room, a regular human bedroom, was still there with its four walls. The walls were thin; he could hear his father snoring.

Lifting his snout in the air, Arnold detected the strong smell of coffee; it must still be early, he thought. Fred Ziffel rose every morning at five, and Doris, his wife, always had coffee ready.

Not yet accustomed to having four legs, Arnold stood unsteadily on the bed. He decided to jump to the floor; landing partway on his head, he cursed his sensitive pig ears.


There was a knock on the door.

You all right in there? Arnold? 

He tried to speak, to say anything, to simply say, “Yes”. Instead what came out was a strangled, squealing sound. Arnold scrambled to hide under the bed as his mother opened the door.

Arnold what in tarnation—ohmygod—Fred! Fred get in here!

Barefoot, rubbing his eyes, Fred Ziffel stumbled toward his son's bedroom. What’s all the calamity, he said, and Doris pointed to the boy who tanned deeply in the summer; their son, who was now a China White.

Fred and Doris Ziffel were sensible, practical people. They loved their boy but push will come to shove; the smell of thawing earth, Easter Sunday almost here, and neither Fred or Doris cared much for the taste of lamb.

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