when pigs fly

by underswansea

The day was done. It was Friday. Everybody was happy.

We were putting the rakes and shovels and tools away. I saw a yellow smear of fur walking the path above the grounds shed. Dogs and me get along. I gave a whistle and took to the path. The tools were in their place. The dog turned. It was a fat bastard. It had a light coat with pink skin underneath. I never considered putting sunscreen on an animal, but seeing this one, I was ready to make an exception. It had a snout that turned up and sniffed. It was as fat as a pig.

On closer inspection, it was indeed, not a dog, but a pig. At first you laugh and then you think this pig must have a home. For a second I thought it may have got away from the grocery store. Escaping just before it was turned into chops, ribs and bacon.

I called my supervisor. He came out of the office, took a look and said, ‘that is a tame pig.’

We depend on him to make such calls.

The pig rooted around. Charged me twice. My supervisor said, ‘it must like you.’

What do you do when you find a lost pig. We all had our hands on our phones. The supervisor said, ‘I wish I knew who to call.’

We felt the same.

The pig rooted around and headed down the path. A dog behind a fence barked. The pig payed it no mind.

We called, but it didn’t want anything to do with us. I am not sure how smart they really are.

It was the weekend and an end of a pay period.

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