Saving the world, one pig at a time

WHAT finally caused me to consider the increasing tempo of postal charity pitches was a request for money from a pig sanctuary.

My mailbox is jammed every day with organizations asking for donations to help fight an encyclopedia of diseases from sweaty palms to terminal boredom.

Others want money to save the forests, save the bay, save the ocean, save the air, save the cities and save the little children of Peru.

Still others want me to fight starvation, gun sales, poverty, violence, the Republican Party and those who are always fighting.

The other day, my mail consisted of two bills, one personal letter and eight pitches. The record number of solicitations to me in one delivery is 18.

They come addressed to me, my wife and sometimes to someone who doesn’t even live here. I’ve received mail as Art Martinez, Cantor Martinez, Dr. Martinez and Martinez Martinez.

They send me calendars, greeting cards, return address stickers, bumper stickers, notebooks and little yellow happy faces to plaster all over the ceiling of my study, to grin down at me like maniacal moonbeams.

I have learned to recognize money requests even though they often come in envelopes disguised as bills. They warn of deadlines, declare that this is my last chance and demand immediate payment.

They want me to believe it is money I owe, an obligation I have, a service I have committed to. Many are using oblique return addresses. It’s from the Office of the President or from the Assistance Council of America. Open now! Read! Pay!

Almost every day I receive a new pitch from a charity I have never heard of. Whenever I am forced to give out my address or my telephone number, I tell them I do not want them sold to anyone for future solicitations. They do it anyhow. No one cares, least of all our lawmakers, who are busy invading our privacy on their own.

Then one day I received the porker pitch. It was a pamphlet from the Ironwood Pig Sanctuary of Marana, Ariz. On the cover was the sketch of a pig and a notation that said, “Kizzy has a new name, a new home, and a new life. Read her story inside.”

It seems that Kizzy was an abandoned potbelly pig turned over to Ironwood by a passerby who found her. According to them, “She had a prolapsed uterus and was so undernourished that you could clearly see every bone in her body.” There is a picture of her in that state. She looked like hell. But wait. Thanks to the care at Ironwood, she now looks like a bloated dog.

To continue their work, Mary Schanz, president and co-founder of Ironwood, would like me to enclose a check for $15, $25, $50 or $100 or “whatever you can afford.” Ten thousand would be great. A million gets a pig named after me.

I have no problem with people owning pigs. I would not own one myself, but that’s just me. Maybe it’s because when I was a kid, my mother told me that pigs ate children. She was always warning me of imminent dangers, many of which were nonexistent. But she scarred me forever against pig love. I cringe when I see tots sidle up to them. I don’t see it often, but you always have to be on the alert for the possibility.

The folks at Ironwood, I am told, “provide a loving home to over 435 pigs, with many more needing a home.” Some are pictured on the back page. They have names like Jumper, Verdell (Verdell?), Wallace, Morgan, Gilbert, Gracie, Spike and Chorizo -- which gives you some idea what someone may have had in mind for him. Let’s have a fiesta cookout, and be sure to invite little Chorizo. Yummy.

I may send a donation to Ironwood, if only because no one has ever asked me to save a pig before. At least it’s unique. But then that’s it. They can send all the follow-ups they want, but not another dime. I give once. It’s up to someone else to save the rest of the pigs.

Meanwhile, I will continue to deal with persistent demands for money by tossing them into a rejection bin. My feeling is that they would probably have more money for their causes if they didn’t blow it on stamps and envelopes, and on printing calendars, return address stickers and those stupid little happy faces.

I have learned to throw their pitches away as fast as they send them. The problem with that is I think I am developing a form of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. I’m sure others suffer from the same problem for the same repetitive reason. I’m going to have pamphlets printed and send them out by the thousands: “Save a wrist, send a buck.”

And when I’m living high on the hog, so to speak, I’ll hire someone to open the envelopes with money in them and throw all of the others away.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.