Hog Wild

He adds that a hog doesn't feel pain. A squeal, he says, is "an alarm signal sent out to other hogs." But this, he says, is something animal rights activists and city slickers in general don't understand.

"They think we're all uneducated, stupid poor people on welfare and food stamps thirsty to see gore and blood and guts," Johnson says. "We don't want to see gore. We want to see a dog perform. It's like a gymnast scoring a ten on the uneven bars. When a dog makes a great catch, people go, 'Beautiful! That dog is awesome!' "

Pass a watermelon stand, a one-lane bridge and a tiny cemetery, then turn left onto a winding dirt road across from a barely legible homemade sign that reads El Perro Muerto.

Translation: The Dead Dog.

Disregard the morbid name. This popular all-night hog-bay trial, held on August 12 some 25 miles south of Seguin, has the feel of a town fair.

At the center of all the activity is a lit pen, 80 steps across. A pair of judges take their seats high above the pen on old barbershop chairs welded to garbage cans.

Hundreds of people come and go throughout the night. Some hail from as far away as Katy or even Louisiana.

A few miles down the road are exotic game ranches, where hunters pay top dollar to shoot animals such as elk, rhinos and zebras.

Nearby Nixon is home to Dan Moody, a commercial hunter who claims his Texas Dogs on Hogs video series -- which depicts actual feral hog hunts edited with slow-motion effects and classic-guitar riffs -- has sold 20,000 copies worldwide.

Two men stand along the inside of the pen holding plywood used to protect themselves and to break up any fights that may occur between the animals. Each dog has one minute to bay the hog. If a dog bites, it's disqualified.

In the first contest, the dog freezes, cowers just outside the gate and never even approaches the hog.

In the next contest, the dog boldly runs up to the hog and stops a few feet away, barking at it. The hog takes one step forward and the dog flinches, doubling back to the gate as the crowd roars in laughter.

A few matches later produces the only injury of the night. A black-mouth cur, just 11 months old and weighing less than 50 pounds, takes on a 225-pound boar. The puppy holds its own. But when the contest ends, the guys with the plywood have some trouble getting the hog back into the chute. It's then that the hog suddenly charges at the dog and slashes its neck, cutting into muscle.

"The dog was at fault because he quit baying," says Bill Seger, the dog's owner, who also organizes a hog-bay trial held every other month in Waelder. "He took his eyes off the hog and started sniffing the ground."

Seger cleans the dog's wound with povidone-iodine and hydrogen peroxide, administers a shot of penicillin and clamps the skin back together with a surgical stapling gun.

Many hog hunters are self-taught field veterinarians. A South Texas man at the event sells puncture-proof vests for dogs as well as suture kits and blood-stop powder. He travels to hog-dog rodeos every weekend plying his wares.

A couple of hours pass. No more scrapes or mishaps occur. The audience is generally good-natured, cheering on the dogs. Some put on spectacular performances. They get in front of the hog, bark incessantly and maintain a laserlike focus, keeping the hog completely still. When the hog takes a step the dog shadows it, cutting off its path and holding it captive.

"This is a way to make money off the sport," says 22-year-old Harry White, an avid hog hunter from Waelder. "If you show you have badass dogs, people want your puppies."

During a break, a pig chase is held. A baby feral hog, just a couple of months old, its mouth taped shut, is dragged by its hind leg and dropped into the pen. A dozen or so kids run after it, screaming and laughing. "I pushed it down and jumped on it!" says ecstatic eight-year-old Deven Spurlock, describing his victory. "I want a hog-dog for my birthday!"