YEAR OF THE PIG

He reminded me of the piggy bank where I’d saved all my spare change as a kid. I invested all I had in him, feeding him until stuffed, while he turned out to be emptier than I’d ever thought possible.

We didn’t talk much, he and I. We used grunts to communicate and cuddled up to keep warm.

When we get rich, baby, I promised, we’ll ride the waves, and if we ever get bored, we’ll scratch ourselves on trees and wallow in the shallows.

I hear ya, hon, he said. I’m tired of being told I sweat like a pig and live in a pigsty all the time. I need a change of scenery too.

Out of the blue, he told me one day he didn’t like to fry in the sun after all and preferred rolling in the mud, as well as something about sourcing out buried land mines I didn’t quite understand. He couldn’t fool me. He must’ve found another teat to suckle from.

I still have that piggy bank and wonder to this day – of all the animals in the world, why did the pig get all the glory?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta find some place to cool off and I’m not a big fan of mud puddles myself. Maybe Antarctica. From what I hear, there are no pigs there.