Then the hog will stop and uncannily eye the boy who holds the gun, unmoving and solid; you might say it resembles a rhinoceros or an elephant about to charge. It lets out another snort, steam jetting into the cold air. But it remains still. Its eyes are tiny and mean, but bewildered just the same. The boy will, carefully, take his aim slowly, slowly, taking his time. He squeezes. The gun fires. The hog jumps, snorts: you will see a red dot appear on the broad plain between the eyes, hear the bang of the gun. The hog rears up on its hind legs like a horse, bucking, tossing its head, but only once, twice. It seems to land miraculously on its front legs, but only for a split second. It topples, hitting the ground with a thud, and lets out a sound that you might call a death rattle—all in a matter of seconds. Its eyes fix intensely on nothing. Its breathing comes labored; the dot in its forehead runs red. The man pulls out a long, silver knife, rushes to the expiring mound, catches the flesh under the thing’s great head, and, with a very steady hand, makes a deep and long incision in its throat, slicing the artery there. The thick, deep-red blood, steaming in the cold December air, gushes, bathing his hands and shoes. The hog shivers: trembles: quakes: its legs spasm and thrust in the air like a sleeping dog’s until, in a few minutes, it ceases to twitch, lying in a pool of red.

But you’ve seen this, haven’t you? When you were younger? Perhaps . . .

Of course it’s a way of life that has evaporated. You’d be hard-pressed to find a hogpen these days, let alone a hog. No, folk nowadays go to the A&P for their sausages, to the Winn Dixie for their liver pudding, to the Food Lion for their cured ham. Nobody seems to eat pickled pig’s feet anymore and chitlins are . . .

But the ghosts of those times are stubborn; and though the hog stalls are empty, a herd can be heard, trampling the grasses and flowers and fancy bushes, trampling the foreign trees of the new families, living in their new homes. A ghostly herd waiting to be butchered.

April 29, 1984 11:30 am

April 29, 1984

11:30 am

. . . What to become?