Years ago we lived right next to a pig sty, my family and me. Not in the pig sty, just next to it. My father added on a little step so that I could stand up and just see over the top of the wall and watch the pigs being fed. The piggy smell was rich and gamey. I felt very at home looking down at all that glossy muddiness, the pigs caked in it, grunting in satisfaction as they tucked into their leafy greens and slops. Directly opposite my prime viewing spot was a tall bale of hay, where our black and white cat, Biggie used to perch himself sometimes from where, like me, he could enjoy the spectacle below.
Years later I sometimes wonder what happened to the pigs, and the farm. I do remember what happened to Biggie though. Last I saw of him, he was miaowing unhappily inside his cage, packed and ready to be taken away to his new home. I remember my mother explaining to me that we were going somewhere very far away, and that Biggie would not be able to come with us, but that he would be moving in with some very nice people right here in Crawley, and that they would take good care of him.
I remember saying goodbye to Biggie, but not to the pigs, or the pigsty, but I probably did say goodbye. Four year olds are like that. And I think they prefer closure rather than false promises, and I think they understand words like ‘emigration’ when truthfully explained.
Prompted by Linda G Hill at
Stream of Consciousness Saturday #SoCS