We just got back from setting the pig alight up at the pond. On the way up I managed to slice my big toe open on a rock (goddamn flip-flops).
I should have brought the camera to get a shot of the numerous buzzards sitting on the gunwales of the rowboat, vomiting happily.

They’d pretty much deflated pig, who this morning looked like a leathery exercise ball. I can’t say I will miss him that much.

My wife said she remembered a few good times, where he’d just sit with us and grunt while we drank heavily. There is that.

He was obviously able to process the amount of information necessary to ensure he got his way virtually every minute of his incredibly long life. He did it with a minimum of effort, and a complete absence of grace.

He had glands on his legs that squirted a mucilaginous goo, like zits (Likely for reminding him which sows he’d been successful at climbing, or would have, if his original owners hadn’t yanked his joybeans out). He could chew chunks of cured mortar with the horrifying stubs of his teeth.

To the dogs, he was initially a producer of “hot biscuits”. Then, when he became a competitor for foodstuffs, a kind of ambulatory chew toy.
He remained persistent in the face of ear gnawing and hock-biting, and consumed enough dog, cat, sheep and mule feed, in addition to his own, to get up to around 160 lbs.

I thought I was going to choke to death on his fumes before I got the fire lit, but once the flames hit him, he went up just like you’d expect for a big greaseball.

Bye, pig. It was really real.

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