When I was a little kid, we had a pig named Corky.  Corky was raised for slaughter, but of course, being about four years old, I wasn’t privy to this information.  I thought he was a pet...a dirty pet that lived in a pen way behind the house.  My sister and I would go pull cane from a patch a little ways from the pen and then feed it to him.  He loved it!

    His name should have been Houdini because he was an accomplished escape artist.  He would root his way out of the pen and my mother would call my father and tell him, “The pig’s out!”  I guess my father would come home, chase down the pig, get him back in the pen and return to work.  I really don’t remember.  One morning I was sitting in the living room watching “Roy Rogers” and through the window, I saw what I thought was a tumble weed blow through the carport.  It turned out to be Corky making a run for it.  I guess Corky knew what was in store for him.

    One day Corky went away.  I don’t remember the particulars about it, but I do recall sitting on the back steps crying.  He’ll always be a tumbleweed in my mind.  A big brownish gray tumble weed headed toward the highway, chasing his freedom.  I only pray that we didn’t eat him.