Have I mentioned we’re raising pigs again?  This time doing it our way, rotating their pasture and letting them till up vast swaths of our new and erstwhile untouched, unkempt land?  Have I mentioned this results in lean, fast, noisy fuckers, who pile mud atop the fence when out of space, and use that vulnerability to bust free and free range on the property?  Have I mentioned that this is what I saw when I opened the door to dash out for an errand this morning?
I don’t eat pork, but it will be so satisfying to start with them.
My dad’s pigs look just like yours – polka dots and all. And sneaky little escape artists, too, every last one of them…
We’re friends again. Today. For now. And that one in the front, the red one with black spots? His name is Asshole Pig, a name he didn’t have to grow into.
fuck pigs and fuck frank sinatra