So, this happened yesterday on the way to mamaβs. I spotted these pigs up ahead of me, and then made sure I ended up beside them at the stoplight, leaving at least three car lengths ahead of me, much to the dismay of those behind me.
Opportunity came knocking, though, and I had to answer the door!
I called out greetings to them, but they paid me no mind whatsoever. The driver of the truck that was pulling them looked at me like I had lost my mind.
Already waving excitedly at the pigs, I then waved at him as I drove by. He didnβt wave back either.
I took a Creative Writing class earlier in the year, and since I fear what their destination might actually have been, I rewrote the scene with an alternate ending, just in case they were soon to meet their demise and become someoneβs breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
Here is Bevβs version:
They were NOT going to market!
Those two recently retired pigs were being chauffeured to a charming little farm with an old red barn, several acres of good mud, giant shade trees dotting the property, and a pond specifically designed for wallowing.
They will now live out the rest of their days in peace, enjoying unlimited amounts of whatever it is pigs most love to eat, safe under the guardianship of a kind, elderly caretaker who dotes on them and refers to them each by name.
They will make all sorts of barnyard friends over the years, and will eventually die of old age, quietly in their sleep, after long and happy lives filled with sunshine, mud, good food, and absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of bacon.
And if, on some dewy, brand new morning, a spider should happen to spin the words SOME PIG in the corner of that old red barn, well, no one there will be the least bit surprised.
The end.
Thatβs my story, and Iβm sticking to it.