Pig
Pig
“Pig was out of his head yesterday,” I said with a slow shake of my head.
“How so?” My wife was always interested in Pig and his goings-on.
“Last week he had seventeen cats, yesterday it was up to twenty-four.”
“Really? How utterly strange.” She finished her scrapple and eggs and put her dish in the sink. She sat back down and I went over and ran some water over our greasy morning dishware. Pig never liked us, and I can’t say that I blamed him since we eat scrapple and bacon.
“Yeah, he’s got ‘em working day and night on that ridiculous balloon,” I said.
“Those poor cats,” my wife said. “And you know he doesn’t pay them anything but meager scraps.”
“Scraps from Scrapple,” I teased.
“Don’t call him that. You know he hates it.”
“I know, I know. He hates everything. That’s why he’s building that damn balloon. One day he’s going to fly out of here and be done with all of us.”
“No more Pig for you to poke fun of. That's what you really mean, isn’t it?” I ignored her accusatory barb because she wore a playful smirk. She hates when I make fun of Pig, everybody knows that, but she also hates it when Pig takes advantage of others. I swallowed the rest of my muddy coffee and gnawed at her shoulder.
“Why did I marry you anyway?” I said with my own waggish grin. She slapped at me with a dry towel.
“You know why, you beast!” We had a good laugh over that but she was right. I did know why. Then I was off to work.
(..)
I passed by Pig’s place on the way and, since it was early, I turned into his camp. I heard a commotion around back so I decided to see what was up. Cats. That’s what was up. Cats and more cats. Basket-weaving cats, seamstress cats, rope-making cats, engineer cats assembling throttles and igniters. Now, I’m not enamored with the feline population, everybody knows that, but I had to admire the work ethic and the efficiency of the little buggers.
Pig was sitting under an umbrella in a corner of his compound drinking some sort of dingy slop. When he saw me, his demeanor changed from cantankerous drill sergeant to cantankerous cartoon villain.
“What the hay are you doing here?” he snorted, gray slime dripping from the corner of his mouth down his neck. I didn’t want trouble with Pig so early in the morning, especially when I had just showered for work, so I played it civilly.
“Just wanted to see how your project was going and wish you luck on your new venture.” I knew I was laying it on thick, but Pig rarely noticed the intricacies of post third-grade speech patterns. He huffed and got up and I didn’t know whether I should run or see what he was up to.
“Oh… well, okay. Thanks, I guess.” Pig was a mess. He was dirty. He smelled like excrement. Even his hat had muddy stains. How he got all those cats to work for him, I’ll never know. I quickly changed my position so I was upwind from him. “You know,” he said with a low, conspiratorial voice, “it’s not just a balloon.” We both looked over at the flattened monstrosity and I noticed the basket was unusually large.
“Oh?” I said, surprised that Pig was confiding in me something that I didn’t think he had told many others.
“It’s my new home,” Pig said. “I’m going to live up in the clouds.” Somehow, even in all of his muck, he summoned an air of prestige. He then proceeded to tell me the details of his “plan” and how he intended to quit his job and live rent-free and catch birds all day. I wanted to bite out his larynx to shut him up.
(..)
“Pig’s leaving tomorrow,” I told my wife later that evening. I shared with her Pig’s plan of retirement and rebirth.
“That soon?” she said. “Should we get him something - like a farewell gift?” I looked at her as if she just announced she was going vegetarian, which would have been impossible. Everybody knows that.
“Um… who are you?” I said. “And more importantly, what are you?” We both had a good laugh over that but still made plans to watch Pig’s departure the next morning.
(..)
The sun had just crept over the family Johnstone barn as my wife and I arrived at the field adjacent to Pig’s property. We sat and ate our bacon sandwiches as we watched the crumpled balloon inflate and take shape. It was so large it required four burners at full capacity to get filled enough to lift the enormous basket.
An hour later, the balloon broke its bond with gravity and ascended slowly, Pig included. The basket, which created a monstrous shadow on our community’s little patch of earth, contained a bedroom, living area, kitchen, and a sanitation alcove. We saw Pig wave to what he must have hoped was a huge crowd but only consisted of my wife and me, a few cats, Bull and Cock, and Samantha Johnstone, age six.
An hour after that, Pig and balloon slowly descended back down to Pig’s camp. It touched down in the mud. As the balloon deflated, Pig exited his wicker castle looking a little deflated himself. His color had changed from bright pink to sickly gray. The missus and I went over to ascertain the reason for his sudden reversal of fortune.
“What gives, Pig?” I shouted as I approached. Pig turned toward us and we stopped in our tracks. He looked terrible and the stench of vomitus was overpowering.
“Turns out I don’t handle heights too well,” he snorted. My wife and I had a good laugh over that.
The next day, we went over to Pig’s place and ate him. Hyenas love pork chops and ham hocks. Everybody knows that.