They didn’t push the fence. The gate was opened and the pigs were let in to root the garden. Pigs are powerful creatures. One carried me once twenty yards after plowing through my feet, like I wasn’t there. The pig has a day. And if you're trapped in the moment, obsessed, even blinded by the fast-paced present, you’d think the pig was farm-boss. Future breakfast is so far off. Destroying the garden is one half of farming. If livestock is allowed to do this, that stock must seem in charge.
Collectively, Americans are a wizened old homesteader now set rocking in the chair on the front porch. The kids whirl and the relatives scramble and everyone in a tizzy about the demolition and scrapping of what remains of our summer surface and sunlight mine. But America has a sense. Beyond words. Deep within us. Some chaos should be ridden like a wave. Listen closely to what people truly say.
They say Jesus, well, what did they do to Jesus?
How do you stop a pig from destroying its own habitat, the very environment its life and livelihood are dependent on? In that garden, one on one, you stand no chance. The old timer has worked that field to the inch. It is very rich. But nothing is without end.
Being heavily domesticated, a pig lost its instincts, its organic inhibitions denied by its own privilege, its always been fed, housed, never walked on a leash, never bridled or saddled, to the pig, the farmer seems a slave. I'd say of all domesticated animals, the pig has the most feral situation within its domesticity. It might truly believe it is king of the world right up until that very day.
In a matter of time, it’ll saunter back to the nice comfortable shelter, back with its head in the corn-filled pale. It needs us far more than we ever will. And the true nature of the American people will shine. Grinning, like it always does. No one will offer a word of regret, take blame, or admit fault.
There will be no apologies. Just bacon.
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