I've been watching the pig. It's been a week or so now. Today I decided that he's kind of cute. All joking aside, he seems to have adapted to life in suburbia better than I have. Sometimes when I stare out the kitchen window, I switch places with him. I play mind games. I'm in the dirt pushing around lettuce leaves and he's in my messy kitchen, and neither of us seem to notice the difference.
The thing is, I guess, pigs adapt.
He has no sense that he doesn't belong a mile off I-75 near a strip mall and an elementary school playground. What does he care? He's got dirt and food and can snap his curly tail (I've seen him) when the flies bother him. He could be in Oklahoma. He could be in Buckhead. He doesn't give a shit. Because he's a pig.
I like the pig now. I like looking out my window and seeing a pig where he shouldn't be, not caring one way or the other where he is.
He's happy for the dirt and the lettuce and the long days of rain that have made his mud hole that much more enjoyable.
You go, pig.
