Pig.

This is a sad one.

It begins in a large, old farmhouse where my family lived in Waterford, ME. Known for it’s...nothing, Waterford was a very typical rural town, with rolling hills, twisting roads, two general stores and a number of fine lakes. Our property was a few acres beside Keoka Lake Campgrounds and included a large field, some of the woods behind it and Right of Way onto Keoka Beach. Back in the woods lay the dilapidated remains of a VW Bug, but this isn’t the Bug’s story. This is my pig’s story.

For purely tax reasons, we registered our property as a “small farm,” which means we had to raise livestock in one form or another. At first, it was just the chickens. Six free-range chickens we never got around to naming, except Pinkie, who was the largest and less red. They were a nuisance, running about, defecating on every surface, bucking and cawing whenever there was the slightest notion that the humans might feed them. We collected their eggs for a spell, this was one of my household duties and I enjoyed it. I developed a rapport with the chickens and they entertained me. But eventually they stopped laying them where we could find them, and I was done with the chickens and their consistent defecation.

As time passed, we had come to purchasing two sheep, Jack and Jill. And a goat, Billy. My mother is a very creative and clever person.

We even borrowed a horse briefly, but was a bad idea, for we were not horse people and did not have horse things and the horse decided he wasn’t a Curran horse so he escaped a few times before we gave him back to his rightful owner. I don’t remember this horse’s name, and don’t really care to find out. I thought he was a stupid horse.

But we did have one animal that I loved. I decline to use the term “pet,” because my mother has made it very clear to me since then that we did not buy this animal to be our pet. This animal had other Purposes. It was a small pig, and we named it Pig.

I realize now that my mother called it Pig so that we would not get attached to it. But attached to it I grew. My brother and I would feed it cabbage heads and other vegetation and Pig would be the happiest animal I’ve ever seen. He’d roll in his mud, we’d spray him with a hose sometimes. There was really nothing we could do that would not make Pig as happy as a pig in shit (which he was). My stepfather also got very into Pig. He’d come home from work, still in suit and tie, button down and slacks. He’s set his briefcase inside the house, grab some random food item and head straight for the pen. He’d get inside and feed Pig by hand and Pig would jump all around him with glee, splashing mud all over his clothes, even rubbing himself against his pant legs affectionately. He would make the happiest Pig noises. I miss Pig so much.

Because, yes, the inevitable had to occur. October turned to November, the grass got the white sheen over it every morning. The air became cold, sharp and crisp. My mother had told my brother and I it was very hard to keep a pig over the winter, so it was time to call Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell lived up Blackguard Hill and kept a large farm. He’d plow our driveway every morning of the winter, for a reasonable price. And he’d also butcher our pig for a reasonable price. I was against this decision, but not throwing a tantrum or anything. Come on, I was 16. I think.

The kick in the pants here is when Mr. Bell pulled into our driveway with his big old truck with a pen on the back, he accidentally hit Jack. The male sheep, brother to Jill. I remember looking out my window at my Stepdad standing beside Mr. Bell, staring down at the deceased woolen form. I did not hear the conversation, but know how it went. Mr. Bell said, under his breath to my Stepdad, I can just take the sheep too. Free of charge. My Stepdad agreed. This also may seem a bit cold, but who wants to clean up a dead sheep body? No one in my family volunteered, so this was the way it went. They loaded up Pig into the truckpen. They lifted and put Jack onboard too. And then they drove away with my beloved pet and Jill spent the next twenty minutes in extreme separation anxiety, running laps around our house braying in search for her fallen brother, in vain.

I was sad by all this, but I understood things like nature, and mortality, and butcher shops at this point in the game. So I let it pass. Time did pass, the winter arrived grey and strong, and our freezer filled with individually wrapped parcels of white paper and elastic bands.

Fast-forward to a bright morning in January or February. I don’t know which month, but I know the sun was out far more and the snow was melting. It was still cold in the mornings, I came downstairs shivering in my bathrobe, ready for a hot, hot, hot, luscious shower. It was a weekend, so I got to sleep in. And my Stepdad was already awake in the kitchen, and when he saw me enter from the stairway he told me he had made me breakfast. My absolute favorite breakfast meal. A breakfast sandwich with toasted bagels, cheese, eggs, bacon and some light salsa. He had it there too. It smelled orgasmic. I instantly hit the shower as fast as I could. Soaking up the steam and hot water, dreaming of this delightful meal. The sleep-in, the hot shower, the breakfast sandwich. Today was going to be a Day.

You’ve probably already guessed what comes next. I dried off, entered my kitchen, sat down in front of this perfection and looked up at my Stepdad.

“Now Travis, I have to tell ya...that’s Pig.”

My jaw dropped. Pig was in my sandwich. The bacon looked so crisp and flavorful, because I had fed it and played with it in it’s jovial days of youth. I was horrified. It was god awful.

And I ate it.
Because I’m pathetic.
Because I’m weak.
I’m a shallow shell of man with no pulse or feeling or compassion. I chewed, and I swallowed, and I devoured that sandwich. I enjoyed it’s taste, but the scar it left on my soul satiated no hunger. I’m weak. I’m pathetic. I still can’t fucking believe myself.

And that guilt rides me to this day.