Those Pesky Pigs — A Hilarious Retelling of the Three Little Pigs

You know those three little pigs? Yeah, those pigs. Everyone thinks they’re just harmless little oinkers, all pink and pudgy and innocent. But let me tell you—those pigs are nothing but trouble. If I’m sitting here in jail tonight, it’s because of them. And no, I’m not the villain in this story. Not really.

I mean, sure, I threatened to eat them. It’s just what wolves do. But if you want the truth, I’m actually a vegetarian. That’s right. Don’t tell anyone though—I’ve got a reputation to maintain. What self-respecting wolf goes around snacking on tofu and lentils? But honestly, in a world where all the animals talk—sometimes more than I’d like—eating meat feels a bit… awkward. Once you’ve had a chat with your dinner at the post office, the appetite kind of fades, you know?

So yeah, it’s not a moral thing. It’s survival. If I went around doing what wolves do, I’d be chased out of this village faster than you can say “huff and puff.” And frankly, I like my life here. I’ve got a nice little cottage, a decent garden, close enough to the shops when I need groceries, and not far from the woods for when I feel like pretending I’m still a fearsome predator.

But the pigs—those pesky, plump pranksters—make everything difficult. They’ve figured me out, I’m sure of it. They know I can’t actually eat them, so they’ve made it their life’s mission to torment me. Most days I let it go. A glare here, a growl there, just enough to remind them I’m still a wolf. But sometimes… sometimes they push too far.

Let me tell you what happened.

It all started while I was weeding my garden, minding my own business, when the first pig waddles past my house. We nodded politely. Civilized. No problem. But later, when I went to grab the hose, I catch the porky rascal in my backyard, elbow-deep in my corn patch! This wasn’t the first time either. His brother had been in there just the day before, trampling my cucumbers.

I didn’t think twice. I cranked the hose up to full blast, aimed right at his pink posterior, and let it fly. The spray hit him squarely, sent him squealing headfirst into the dirt. I laughed so hard I dropped the hose—it wriggled like a snake and squirted me in the face. Worth it though. Totally worth it. My corn might’ve been smashed, but seeing that pig squeal? Priceless.

I thought that was the end of it. Ha. I should’ve known better.

That night, I was reading in bed when I heard tapping on my roof. At first, I thought it was rain, but the noise grew heavier, more deliberate. I peeked out the window—nothing. Still, I grabbed my torch and stepped outside. That’s when it hit me—literally. An egg, right to the face. Then another. And another. From the bushes, I heard muffled snorts and giggles. I knew it was the pigs.

I shouted, lunged for them, but tripped and dropped my torch. By the time I recovered, they were gone, the night air filled with the smell of egg and humiliation. I cleaned myself up, grumbling, knowing full well that cleaning egg off a tin roof was tomorrow’s problem.

By the time I was on the roof the next morning, paw pads burning on the hot metal, scrubbing dried yolk, I’d decided enough was enough. I didn’t have a plan yet, but revenge was coming. Oh yes.

And then—like fate handing me an opportunity—the three pigs strolled past my house that very afternoon. The eldest, the brick-house builder, led the way, all serious and dignified in his denim cap, occasionally turning to scold his brothers for lagging. The younger two, though? Snickering, poking each other, glancing at me with smug grins.

They passed my house, the eldest pig politely nodding. “Good evening,” he said. Civilized.

I replied, just as civil, but then—then I made the mistake of glancing back. There they were, the two younger pigs, sticking their tongues out, making rude gestures.

That was it. The dam burst. Maybe it was the heatstroke, the sleepless night, the lingering egg smell on my roof, or the burned paw pads—but I snapped. The glass of red wine I’d been sipping flew from my hand, and I vaulted the fence, howling like only a wolf can.

I chased them up the road, my legs pumping, my claws scraping dirt. Wolves, my friend, are fast. The pigs squealed all the way to the brick house, barely making it inside. I almost caught the last one, my paw grazing his curly tail. But in he went, pulled in by his brothers, door slammed shut.

I don’t remember much after that. I think I yelled something about huffing and puffing and blowing the house down—typical wolf stuff, right?—and maybe tried to climb in the window. Next thing I know, the village guard’s dragging me off to jail, the pigs crying foul play.

So here I am, behind bars for the night. They say I’ll have to give my statement in the morning. But as I stare at the full moon outside my tiny window, I’m hatching a plan. Next time, no threats. No chases. Just clever, calculated revenge.

Those pesky pigs won’t see it coming.

Moral of the Story

Even wolves have their breaking point, especially when provoked by clever pigs. But the smartest wolves know that wit, not brute force, wins the game in the end.