So we went to a carnival at a nearby country club yesterday. There was a face painter, a balloon artist, a huge slide, some bouncy castles, tons of food and a petting zoo.
Inside the petting zoo was the above 3-month-old pig.
I asked the guy in charge about the animals. He said they live in a no-kill, no-harm farm environment where love rules the day and they’re all cared for with great compassion. Then I wondered, specifically, about the pig. For some reason the little guy caught my fancy. He seemed particularly curious and friendly. I’d spent precious few life hours around pigs, so this one really intrigued me.
“How big will the pig get?” I asked.
Oh, about 300 pounds.
Yeah. That’s why they’re hard to keep.
Yeah. They’re hard to manage when they grow full size.
“Does that mean he winds up bacon?”
Maybe. Maybe not. Depends.
His tone suggested “maybe” outweighed “maybe not.” And for some annoying reason, this devastated me. I don’t know why. I mean, thousands upon thousands of pigs ultimately become processed meat. But even now, a day removed, little guy remains in my thoughts.
And will hopefully not, one day, wind up on my kids’ plates.