It's a beautiful spring morning. The sun is shining. The birds are tweeting (not that kind of tweeting...the old fashioned bird kind) and the pigs? Well, the pigs are squealing and dancing around the pen like they've won the lottery. Why? What would make the pigs dance and squeal like they're happier than pigs in...well...you know? No, it's not because the big bad wolf (or garden gnome, or fox) has taken his last bow. Oh no, they've gotten much better news than that. They heard I was supposed to feed them today.
I've clearly pissed off Mr. Lincoln if he's willing to let me enter the pig pen, bucket of feed in my hands, unable to defend myself against a multi-pig attack. I may as well dab a little bacon behind my ears and stick an apple in my mouth. I'm done for if I step foot over that fence...and we all know it.
I have no idea what about me appeals so much to the pigs. But after multiple demonstrations with witnesses, it has been determined I am their favorite. Favorite what? I have no clue, but I fear I'm their favorite dish.
If all the evidence pointing to this fact wasn't enough, I decided to step into the pen under the watchful eye of my daughter and a friend. I had something to prove. No one believed me when I said the pigs had it in for me. These attempts on my life always seemed to occur while no one was home. So over the fence I went. All the pigs were sunning themselves, paying no mind to the people in the yard. Well, until they caught the first whiff of me. Then they were up on their feet, heading in my direction, nipping and bumping me. When one of them tried to take a bite, I hightailed it out of there. Of course, Mr. Lincoln still didn't believe me, until the next day when the pigs all ran to the fence to see me while he was feeding them. They left the food to see me. He couldn't doubt it now, could he?
And yet, today he says I have to feed them. Should I worry that he keeps sending me out there to be eaten? Maybe I need to cook a really good dinner or wear something sexy tonight...you know, remind him of why he loves me? Maybe then he wouldn't be offering me up to the pigs like the sacrificial lamb.
Ok...well, wish me luck. But if you don't see a blog from me tomorrow, you'll know what happened. Pigs 1, Writer 0.
Man, that would make for such a good blog too.
Until the next time...I'll be dressing in armor to feed the pigs.