Potbellied pigs found on leash and at Wrigley's trough

They don't possess the landmark status of the scoreboard or the charm of the ivy, but the urinal troughs at Wrigley Field are preserved for another season.

Cubs fans hope the new Cubs owners make changes (our No. 1 concern is passing along petulant outfielder Milton Bradley to another team), but many of us are fine with the Ricketts family's decision to keep the stainless-steel troughs in the men's bathrooms that have survived for generations.

Having grown up on a farm where I saw cattle and hogs jockey for positions at the food trough, I instinctively knew what to do when I first stepped foot into the men's bathroom at Wrigley. Squeezing my child's body into a gap created by the elbows of larger beasts, I ponied up to the trough and answered nature's call next to strangers.

Through the years, I learned how to avoid the wait of standing behind men who looked as if they might have prostate problems. I learned not to stand next to drunks, whose ability to aim might be impaired. I learned not to urinate next to anyone wearing a Cardinals jersey as that fan might be intentionally jostled at an inopportune time.

There is nothing remotely pleasant about any of this, except for the knowledge that I know more about urinating in a trough than some Wrigley rookie. My boys, having literally learned at their father's feet, even know that the activation for the sink (a spot that logs far fewer visitors than the troughs) is a foot-operated device on the floor.

Women, assuming any are still reading at this point, are repulsed by the visual image of a row of men standing shoulder to shoulder before a trough full of urine. They think it makes us sound like pigs.

Given the potbellies sported by many of us trough-users, it seems only fitting that we turn the rest of this column over to reader Paula McGowen of Glen Ellyn.

McGowen read my column about all the good dogs available at shelters these days, and offered up her story about how she spent five years bugging Kerry Vinkler, executive director of DuPage County Animal Care & Control, to find her a pet much different from the assortment of dogs and cats.

"Every time I'd see her, I'd say, 'Kerry, where's my potbellied pig?'" McGowen says.

Then one day, Vinkler called to say the shelter had a pig for her.

"I finally got my potbellied pig. Vinnie the pig. He was 45 pounds when I got him," McGowen says. "Somebody gave him up because I guess they didn't want him. They were living in a condo and Vinnie needs to be outside and enjoy the grass."

Now 2 years old and weighing about 100 pounds, Vinnie is "very enjoyable," McGowen says.

The pig sleeps in a bundle of blankets in the bathroom, and spends some time in the fenced-in backyard.

"Vinnie loves to be outside in the summer, but they (potbellied pigs) do get sunburned, so I give him suntan lotion for his skin," McGowen says.

The porker gets along with the two pit bull dogs that also share the home, McGowen says.

"He's just like a dog," says McGowen, who walks her pig on a leash. "I take him into town with me. I can't go two blocks. It takes me about an hour because so many people stop me to see Vinnie."

Kids have shown so much interest in the pig, McGowen sometimes lets Vinnie entertain for birthday parties. She and her husband also have taken Vinnie on vacations to Wisconsin.

They buy packaged pig food for him and try to keep him from eating too many table scraps. He loves to eat dandelion, but won't touch celery or mushrooms.

And he doesn't require as much bathroom maintenance as a dog, she said, explaining how Vinnie only needs one bathroom break in the morning and one right after dinner.

"Pigs can be left for 12, 14 hours, without going to the bathroom," she says.

The ones at the troughs in Wrigley generally can't make it nine innings.