Lament of a Murder

I am a vile murderer - one of the lowest of the low - belly crawling my way through the sewer systems located in the bowels of life! Does it make you any less a murder if the heinous crime is committed in the performance of normal - seemingly innocuous activities? I think not.

My son, Josh, age 24 and the only child left at home was given a pot-bellied pig. What can a Mom do but say HELL NO it isn’t staying in my house. Pigs are farm animals and belong in a pen outside a barn.
Especially pigs who grow to humongous size and will have feet larger than mine. But this pig was 10 weeks old yall - teeny tiny and cute as a button, all black and white with funky little pink toenails - and it IS winter and he is delicate (said my Son as he looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes). So I did what any Mom worth her name does - I said ok, but you have to take care of it. Right!

He did care for it - semi anyway. When it got to stinking enough to cause a funk that I could smell sitting on the couch - if I raised enough Hell and reminded him obsessively - he would clean it’s pet carrier cage. He fed it, bathed it, changed his litter and all was well. If I heard an occasional snort or squeal, well, I did my best to ignore it - all the time thinking in the back of my brain that as soon as the spring thaw came that thing was out of here. Now pigs, as it happens, have no mechanism in their brain to tell them when their belly is full - therefore earning the name Pig I suppose. At any rate, this 5 pound hunk of ham would eat as long as you fed it. As a consequence of that little glimmer of information, Josh had this critter on a diet. I scoop of cat food twice a day along with water. I liked the little thing, truly I did. It was cute, although I never did develop a sense of delight for the smell of pig piss.

Yesterday Josh had to work his normal 6 PM to 6 AM shift as a security guard. He was running late and, per usual, asked me to feed the pig his supper. I got busy - dragged all the Christmas paraphernalia I had inherited from my Mom home, divided it up between myself and my children. I put up a tree, spent an hour replacing light bulbs in numerous strings of defective lights and placed on said tree. I hauled piles of dirty clothes from the bathroom floor - left there - you guessed - by the grown son mentioned above. The pig's sniffling and snorting because it thought I was bringing it’s nightly ration of food. I decided to vacuum the living room floor - it was covered in pieces of garland, broken bulbs, and leaves carried in on our feet while dragging the debris of Christmas home.

Here I am, industriously sucking trash from the floor, shoving heavy furniture around and dusting as I went along. I am thinking - ok Donna - might as well do the hall while I was at it. Now the hall light was off, but the light on the vacuum lit up my path as I whizzed along like a red caped Hannah Homemaker fighting the never ending dirt and dust generated by normal life. Now back to the pig - as many of you know - pigs root ……… errrr dig with their snouts into anything that strikes their fancy - food included. As a result, Razor (that was his name) had strewn food all over the floor in his quest to be glutinous. In an attempt to do a quick once over - dumb Donna (that’s me) vacuumed right up to his cage and even smacked the cage with the vacuum a few times to push it back to get all the food on the floor.

After a well deserved rest, about 3 AM I decided to get a shower and some rest - AFTER I fed and watered the pig. Getting the required cup of food, I went down the hall and opened the door to empty the cup so I could get water and be done. The pig didn’t rush to the door in eager
anticipation for dinner as he usually did. I thought what the HELL? Then I said ok, he’s sleeping so I shook the cage. Nothing. Not a sound. No movement, no snorts, nada. I ran and got a flashlight and dropped to my knees and shown it inside. In the back of the cage lay a mound of what was once a living, breathing pig. I had killed the thing!

I think I scared it to death. I swear I didn’t know pigs were afraid of vacuum cleaners! But that HAD to be it! He was fine minutes before I assaulted his cage and hearing with a Hoover. I should go to jail - should roast on a spit instead of the fattest pig known to man! And dammit I TOLD Josh we shoulda named that damn pig Bacon!