Old Pig

The pig in the old run-down barn had been there for nearly a decade. Blind, disoriented and loud, the old pig had lost all sense of even pig-like composure and knew only to frantically root and gruff throughout his dirty space to find whatever residual food he might have missed in his initial search. I found his behavior disturbing, and as a result I tried to limit my daily interaction with him to the basic necessity of a quick throw-by of slop into his trough. He was alone in the barn - save those creatures that typically find their way into the crevices of wood, dirt, and hay. All things knew to allow the pig a wide berth. A generation of roaches had evolved to recognize the pig as enemy number one since he was just as happy munching on them as he would an apple core or hot dog scrap. Each evening as I approached the barn door, I felt a mixture of disgust and awe. He was an oozing blob, riddled with sores and scars, yet his devouring presence demanded my gaze. I could not look away from this complete embodiment of consumption, and his awareness of me as the supplier of all needs gave me a momentary elevation of status. In these visits, I was the only solution to his sole purpose for existence.

It was a Thursday in July when I first got the thought. I shook it from my head and continued on with my chores. Physical labor usually quiets my mind, but this particular thought originated from such a dark place that I was as fascinated by the thought as I was how I could have possibly arrived at it. Like a balloon you fill with anticipation of its eventual burst, the pig must have a breaking point. Just how much could he hold?

Opportunities to acquire additional food were easy to come by. The pantry was never locked, the kitchen was always crowded with farm hands - too many of us to keep an eye on, and even my own lunch seemed less valuable as fuel as it might be for experimentation. It helped that the old pig would eat anything, in any condition, at any point in its lifespan of expiration. I filled my pockets throughout the day and periodically transferred the finds into my locker. There was no need to forgo the daily feedings, so the pig maintained his regular eating schedule while I accumulated his treasure. My locker soon became woefully inadequate as a repository at which point I shifted my attention to planning. When will the pig receive his bounty?

I decided we needed privacy and time. I would visit the pig at night.

His eyes were closed when I entered. As I anticipated, my coming stirred him from sleep and ignited within him the possibility of a feed. He wobbled to his feet, steadying himself against the old barn wall to regain the equilibrium needed for a meal. My usual quick splatter of food into his trough seemed anticlimactic, so I opted instead to make my way closer to him in order to pour this abundance with a dramatic flourish. He rooted a bit as I made my way to his stall. No doubt he could smell my offering. I waited for his usual expression of desperation. After all, we had plenty of time. But he made no extreme response. I stopped as I moved within arm's length of him, and he stiffened his back in what seemed like a royal pose. This stillness surprised me, and I stopped my motion toward him to watch his next move. The blind pig raised his head in my direction and looked me squarely in the eye. I felt seen in the worst way possible. The pig seemed to sense my intention, recognize my motive, and chastise me with his gaze. I had a choice to make. It was more than whether I would continue the feed or not. It was a choice of who to be.

Ignoring my own cruelty, I moved forward, filling the trough with multiple buckets of trash. Molded bread, chunks of cheese, discarded lettuce, and fermenting fruit. Then I quickly stepped back so as to avoid his charge, but there was no charge. The old pig would not eat.

His reaction was more than unexpected. It angered me. For some reason, I needed him to eat. I needed him to reach his own point of no return to satisfy a dark curiosity and complete a plan that had consumed me for days. But he would not eat.

I became aware of the night sounds - the creak of the barn door and the scurry of a mouse. What was I doing here at night, tormenting an old pig? His stubborn stillness shamed me, and I thought to leave. But where could I go to escape myself? Where could I go to regain the part of me that would not taunt a sick, bloated pig? I realized then that I must be punished. The pig, the barn, the night - it all shamed me. I reached down and chose a penalty, squishing a rotten plum through my fingers and thrusting it down my throat. I fought against the reflex to gag and stuffed a bite of curled baloney into my cheeks. I chewed loudly as if to invite the pig to join me, but only I would eat. As I continued with a frenzied automaticity, the experiment transformed. What is my breaking point? Just how much can I hold?

A piece of bread. A browned potato. Another plum. But I had no sense of what I chose. They were simply fistfulls of shame.

Caught up in the singularity of my purpose, I almost missed the pig's fall. His legs gave way. He fell to the side with a loud thud. My heart sank with the sudden thought that he might be dead. I froze and held my breath. But soon his belly rose and fell with the strained sleep of an overly large animal. The sight of his movement filled me with gratitude, and I became aware of the stench of food and the rot on my own hands and shirt. I jerked my head around, half expecting to see everyone I knew and loved staring at me with disapproval. Careful to allow the pig an opportunity for uninterrupted sleep, I slowly stood up and looked for a way to clean my hands. I rubbed my hands with dry hay and removed my soiled shirt. But my next move seemed oddly unimportant. I realized that I had nowhere to be. No one waiting for me at home, and no one concerned with my whereabouts except for this old pig. His safety became my highest priority and I felt like a father. As he snored and grunted through the night, I stayed by his side.

At the rise of dawn, I heard the old pig rooting and grunting in response to the start of day. I would move through my own day a little lighter - a little less hungry for undeserved superiority.