The pig had been purchased when it was tiny and carefully nourished on potatoes, beetroot, acorns and swill from the kitchen and anything it would eat from the garden refuse. It was a true labour of love.
I put my little girl on my back and ventured out into the fields looking for acorns, for that is what pigs love the best. The fields in that part of France were tiny pastures, surrounded by thick hedges and in them.grew ancient pollard oaks and ash which provided a constant source of fire wood.. And acorns. I can see myself now scrabbling on my hands and knees trying to fill my bucket. The pig was delighted. I somehow felt it was an awful lot of work just to have a couple of hams hanging in the kitchen, but then I had not yet fathomed the lengths to which his Majesty would go to get taste bud orgasms.
Every Wednesday and Saturday the pig, we did not give her a name as she was not a pet, had to be mucked out. Pigs are very clean animals and always kept their sleeping area free from muck which she conveniently put in one corner.
As I did it on Wednesday I suggested one Saturday morning that it was his Majesty's turn to muck out. He agreed and promptly set to, carelessly leaving the pig sty gate open. . I suggested that it would be difficult to catch the pig if she got out but he was of the opinion that it would not even occur to her to make a bid for freedom.. So I left him to it and went back inside. By chance I just happened to glance out of the window which looked over the broad expanse of the freshly ploughed back garden.
As usual I was right. The clever pig had seized the moment and legged it. His Majesty, hoping I would not see him, was running as fast as he could after her. I immediately flung open the casement and rubbed his nose in it.
' Ha Ha,' I jeered, 'there goes our bacon!' There was no stopping the pig as she fled with astonishing agility across the field. My remark spurred his Majesty on as both his pride and our bacon were at stake..
Flying across the furrows he made a last ditch attempt to catch her before she disappeared through the hedge. Launching himself at her in a passable rugby tackle, he landed flat on his face in the mud but somehow managed to grab hold of her curly tail. It was not much to hold on to and for the life of him he was not going to let go. She had no intention of giving in so easily and took off squealing noisily, forcing him to follow in her wake.
Somehow his Majesty pulled himself up and braked with his feet. But she was heavier than he and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. It was blatantly obvious to me, the only spectator of this humiliating episode in our married life, that his Majesty's pride was at stake and nothing in the world could have induced him to let go of that tail.
With the determination of an escaping prisoner, the pig sprinted for freedom while he to all intents and purposes water skied behind her. I can honestly say the pig had a grin on her face, she was laughing, I just knew she was. She dragged him three times round the garden egged on my by roars of laughter until they were both equally black and exhausted when she suddenly decided to put an end to the game. She sat down on her haunches like an old dog, panting and his Majesty was forced to do the same, just to keep hold of her tail.
I am sure that pig had a better sense of humour than his majesty . It was her one and only taste of freedom before she got the chop. So I suppose he had the last laugh in the end. The hams were very good indeed.
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