This Little Piggy

Once Upon a Time...

My grandfather owned a farm where he raised mostly potatoes, but also pigs, cows, and occasionally chickens and lambs.

I spent many a summer afternoon running around hay bails and hearing tales of neighborhood children being crushed by potato machinery. Salt of the earth, I was, and my grandmother picked rhubarb from her vegetable plot and fed it to my small, muffin-sized self. I believe my grandfather ate mustard on his cream of wheat, or something equally outlandish and rustic. They were good, wholesome times, in that Southern Ontarian farmhouse in the god-awful middle of nowhere.

My younger aunt grew up in that house, a decade before my childhood began.

To win her affection, my grandfather (her new stepfather) gave her a piglet to keep as a pet. The piglet was the runt of the litter, a tiny waif of a pig who would otherwise perish, and my aunt took him into her loving teenage arms. She adored her pet pig, who was intelligent and clean, just as pigs are rumored to be. My grandmother trained him to use a litter box. He was the perfect house pig.

But eventually, over time, all of that love and attention began to fatten up our tiny, piggy friend. Like a good little pig, he began to grow. One fine winter day, he could no longer fit in the house. He could no longer nuzzle my aunt to sleep at night with his adoring, piggy snout, for he did not fit in the bed. The family met to discuss what to do with their beloved porcine pet.

It was agreed, unanimously - the piggy had to go to market. All that love would result in especially succulent flesh. My aunt agreed to pocket the cash from the sale, to help her with her grief.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of how the Little Piggy became the Little Pork Chop, who lived happily ever after in our bellies.

The End