Having a farm is like pregnancy. Pain. Blood. Screams.
You forget the pain, the blood and the screams.
Then there is calm. Even joy.
I got a text from a friend.
“Do you need a pig?”
Did I need a pig? Did I?
I remember there were pigs. But that was all. The rest was a haze.
I thought for a moment.
Of course I need a pig.
Waddles was living with a young couple who had rescued him from a booth at a reptile convention.
Seriously, I can’t make this shit up.
His sweet family whisked him away from his sad life at the convention.
But apartment life just wasn’t for him. You know, because he was in fact a pig.
They brought him to the farm and kissed him goodbye.
“This is so beautiful,” they said with tears in their eyes.
“It is perfect,” they said.
The lingering smell of death apparent only to me.
DO NOT READ MY BLOG, I thought as I nodded modestly. (This is my farm blog…I know…right…..?)
I watched the Hell Hound like a hawk for three days for even a hint of a piggy takedown.
I think he has mellowed in his age. Or perhaps he had lost his taste for blood.
But to be honest, this pig was different.
He is not an asshole. He is smart and funny and likes to cuddle with us on the couch. He dips his snout in paint when my daughter paints. He lays at my feet in front of the fire. When we walk in the door he honks and scuttles towards us with his tail wagging. Waddles is in fact, a house pig.
Occasionally there I hear my daughter yell at the pig.
“Do not eat my clothes!”
“That is MY doll!”
But there are no screams of horror. Not yet.