Sala offered to take me down to the village pig pens. I happily obliged, loving any chance to play with animals.
“Each family has a pen,” she explained as we greeted the oinkers. “The pens are on stilts so they don’t get wet at high-tide.”
The pigs climbed up the side of their enclosures to get a better look at us. I crouched over and spoke in that special voice I reserve for puppies and babies. “Hello little piggies,” I cooed. “I know you wish I had food for you but I don’t. But I think you’re aDORable.”
Sala laughed as I snorted at one of the piglets. “I wouldn’t get too attached to them.”
I wasn’t listening. “Your name is Wilbur, isn’t it? And I shall call your friend Rupert. And don’t you just look like a Rosie?”
Sala cleared her throat. “Hilary, I wouldn’t name the pigs.”
I frowned at her, already devising names for the pigs in the next pen. “Why not? They all NEED names.” I scoffed at her. I mean, obviously.
“Okay,” she said slowly. She thought for a moment and then smiled at me mischievously. “Well, this one we could call Wednesday’s Dinner. And that one over there will be Next Saturday’s Meal. How’s that?”
I don’t know what kind of facial expression I made that made Sala laugh so hard. But THAT, my friends, was when I learned the harsh lesson about NOT playing with your food.
WHY CRUEL WORLD?!?!?
Sometimes living in other countries makes me sad. I hate to admit it, but I prefer to be removed from my meal. I mean, I love bacon. But NOW every time I eat a Western Bacon Cheeseburger, I will see this face: