Why would you want a pig?
I wouldn't. In fact, getting a pig is probably the most stupid thing I could possibly undertake at the moment. But given all the other really stupid things I've done in my life, that isn't enough to rule it out.
So why get a pig?
Well, I'm pig-sitting. The pig will be here for a year. Less than a year. I have a dear friend who is disabled. She wants the pig, but she can't care for it until her daughter finishes university in the summer. So she asked if I'd have the pig for a few months. What sort of a friend won't pig-sit for eight months? A sensible one. Which is why she asked me.
Over the last few weeks, as pig-day has approached, I have regretted that decision a thousand times. I do not want this pig. My life is hard enough already. The pig will destroy my garden (which is hardly a thing of beauty, but nor is it a fifth of an acre of churned mud. Yet.). The pig will prevent me going away. The pig will make me feel guilty for not spending more time with it. The pig will probably fall in the pond. The pig may break through the fence and rampage around a field and get me into trouble with the law. The pig will be less trouble than my daughter.
