Runt Pig

A runt pig sucks hind tit, if he's lucky. More often, if there are thirteen babies and only twelve ports, he's completely out of luck. I'd usually hand-raise the runt. A soft spot. And it's nice to have a pig in the kitchen, to talk to. Grunting is certainly a language I understand. We'd keep them in a wooden "pig box" next to the stove, and everybody that came through would feed them some goat's milk. They did very well. Actually, we raised all sorts of runts in the kitchen; goats and sheep, over the years, by the dozen. Kids love to bottle feed baby animals. Raining, again, when I got up, so I put out a bucket to collect rainwater, made my yeoman breakfast, beans and an egg on toast, and headed out. Raining fairly hard by then, and I was concerned about getting down the driveway, but it was nothing, a piece of cake, which was good, because I had a tour of college students to take through at nine, and another at ten, and another at one. So on the drive into town I went over (talking out loud) how the Carter galleries had changed because the paintings had changed; and I had to also talk about the Renaissance show, and I hadn't given that talk, or much thought, yet, to that, but I have to say, I was quite good. I didn't know I knew that much. Maybe I don't. Maybe it's all bullshit. But I was comfortable with it; talked about gold-gilding and egg tempera, and I seemed to be coherent. All that can be asked. A hard frost, a freeze, really, in the hollows, for the next several nights, and it seems too early, but is actually right on schedule. A frost by Halloween, and snow by Thanksgiving. I go into freezer mode, wearing more layers of clothes and thinking darker thoughts. Basho and those last treks, walking with a cane, poking at the future.