High on the Hog

These are pigs. But you know that much.

I gave these pigs names, names I haven’t shared with anybody, and I won’t share them with you. Because these are last year’s pigs, which means they’re now resting quietly in the freezers and stomachs of friends and neighbors.

They lived in the barn by the lower garden and were cared for more-or-less communally. They would recognize my approach by sound from very far away, and line up at the fence waiting for my daily buckets of garden scraps. We had to take particular care in throwing the sweet stuff, as they’d fight over rotten cucumber and squash until they nosed themselves into the zap-fence.

A disclaimer: the stomachs and freezers enjoying these guys do not include my own; I’ve spent more than half my life without subsisting on the flesh of other land-dwellers, for reasons that I’ll spare further proselytization. But interestingly, and surprisingly, the general region of Cooter Hollow is one in which this dietary choice is considered a great anomaly, one which regularly subjects me to not inconsiderable ridicule by the locals (most of which is in affectionate jest of playground maturity, sure, but still, over half my life and this is the first it’s been considered a thing from the outer atmosphere. Some suspect a snack on one’s own intestine would be less curious).

And now, a confession: on weekends, when we’re housing the Young Person, My Native prepares bacon breakfasts for the both of them, and I mean endless servings of the stuff, while I happily munch granola. The Young Person has the most charming habit of picking up a slice the second it makes its way from pan to plate, only to drop it reflexively and spent the next two minutes blowing on it and whining about his burnt fingers and cooling it with the torrent of his spittle. Pavlov would have loved this kid, really; it’s an activity so reliable I set my clock by it. And every time he burns his fingers, I smile wink at the slice of my old friend on his plate, and whisper to him that he’s done his job well.

This year’s pigs have been born and will be at the garden’s barn next week (“after they’re nutted.”); I don’t know that I’ll be able to get away with not naming them.