The toy-like piglets had evolved into 300-pound behemoths in just six months. It was time to take them “to market,” euphemistically speaking. But first they must be coaxed from the pen to the trailer, a project that filled me with dread.

The hogs were not docile. I’d seen them cavorting like bucking broncos, chasing one another around the pen. They’d lost their piglet fear of me. Now when I entered their domain, they bumped and sniffed me as if evaluating my potential as food. The distance from the ground to the trailer was only about a foot — a mere step for a man, but Mt. Everest for a hog. Would they sense that something was fishy about this change of quarters — and revolt?

I’d enlisted two neighbors to help me. We made a chute of fence leading from the pen to the trailer. I chummed the path with a couple of heads of iceberg lettuce. The first two hogs, propelled by curiosity, strolled straight into the trailer. Piece of cake. The third wasn’t so sure. He balked. We applied a little pressure to his rump. Major error. With an operatic squeal, he went berserk, executed a quarterback sneak between our legs, knocked down the chute and sprinted into the open field.

For the next two hours, we played tag with him. Back and forth we ran in pursuit, while he threw us fakes and outmaneuvered us with surprising bursts of speed. A dozen times we cut off his escape routes and got him back in the pen. A dozen times we urged him through the chute to the threshold of the trailer. At the moment of truth, he’d plant his hind legs and refuse to budge. Then he’d lower his head and butt us aside. Down went the chute and we were off again.

We must have looked like the Three Stooges. Excessive rainfall had turned the ground in the pen into a bog and we ran in slow motion as our boots got stuck in the muck. At first, it was sport. After an hour, it became tedious, frustrating, infuriating. No amount of pleading and reasoning could convince the obstinate creature to join his friends. I confess that I uttered a few “choice words.” It was getting dark. We were cold and wet. We fortified the chute with plywood and summoned our strength for one last try. Somehow, it worked. We got him in and bolted the trailer door. End of story.

But this isn’t really about hogs. It’s about the malaise that came over me as I sat in the kitchen, covered with mud and smelling of the sty. I felt defeat rather than triumph. The words I’d uttered flew back and buzzed in my brain, tormenting me.

My companions had managed to handle the struggle with professional aplomb, voicing no more than a few discreet expressions of aggravation and disgust. Reviewing my own performance, I realized that I, in contrast, had violated the pastoral countryside with an incontinent torrent of imprecations and obscenities. A shaft of self-awareness struck me. I had become a foul-mouthed beast. The change had not been sudden. It had sneaked up on me beneath the level of consciousness. But now it possessed me and permeated my being to the core.

The last time I’d noticed, I had control over my tongue. I resorted to expletives only in moments of crisis. Even then, I usually opted for “darn,” “dang-nabbit,” or “h-e-double hockey sticks.” Now it seemed as if I couldn’t express myself without resort to X-rated words. Even my dialogue with myself had become a stream of sludge.

I wanted to blame the culture. After all, television bombards us with language that used to be reserved for foxholes, brothels and locker rooms. It’s impossible for some people to say, “Pass the salt,” without adding the ultimate bad word. How can you live in a sewer without becoming polluted yourself?

But the excuses didn’t help. What bothered me most was the involuntary aspect of my language. There wasn’t any choice in my use of “choice words.” They erupted out of me spasmodically. And they consisted in the same hackneyed repertoire of words every other inarticulate slob uses when he can’t think of anything original or meaningful to day. The grunting of my hogs was more eloquent. I felt like a dummy whose lines were being dictated by a crude ventriloquist. I was in the grip of a habit. I had lost control.

I’ve vowed to regain my tongue, to evict the inane squatter who’d taken up residence inside me and silence his fetid gibberish. I also vow to resist the temptation of reformed offenders to preach to others and exhort them to save themselves. I’ll be happy if I can regain some control over myself.

I mention in passing that a member of the Sex Pistols recently complained that there is too much bad language on British television. Change may be in the air. The day may come when we tire of our degraded, impoverished vocabulary and take some pride in speech again, just for the novelty of it. A generation of teenagers may rise up and reclaim civility and good manners — out of sheer perversity, just to shock their elders. I might also mention the “broken window” theory of crime prevention which argues that minor lapses in standards of behavior may lead to the bottomless pit.

“No word goes astray,” wrote Isaac Bashevis Singer. “Evil words lead to iniquitous deeds. Utterings of slander, mockery and profanity turn into demons, hobgoblins, imps. They stand as accusers before God, and when the transgressor dies, they run after his hearse and accompany him to the grave.”

I aspire to the example of an elderly man I once saw working on a broken outboard motor when a tiny part fell into the water. His only words were, “The devil is busy today.”

— George Gurley, a resident of rural Baldwin, writes a regular column for the Journal-World.