Pig Slayer

I killed a pig. More accurately, I killed a wild pig.

It was dusk and raining.  I was driving 75 miles an hour heading to a late evening meeting when a herd of wild pigs ran onto the highway. Automobiles in front of me swerved, some sliding off the road, some colliding into other cars, and still others crashing into the herd, slaughtering the pigs and damaging their vehicles. I slammed on my breaks, but not fast enough. I, too, hit a pig, a baby pig.  I felt my back tire as it bumped up and then down.  Unfortunately, it did not kill him but he was suffering tremendously. I knew this because he was squealing (yep, like a pig). I was crying (yep, like a baby). The poor thing was in pain. I had to do something. 

Earlier in the day we had a covered dish luncheon at work.  The theme was  “Mexican Fiesta” complete with colorful flowers, blue-toothed mariachi music, and of course Mexican food.  The legend of my organic garden is well known (because I brag enough to create the legend), and so I was assigned to bring the fresh produce:  cilantro, onions, tomatoes, and jalapeño peppers.  For maximum freshness, I packed a kitchen knife (wrapped in my favorite floral print dishtowel for safe travel), to slice and dice the vegis just before serving. After the luncheon, I returned the dishtowel and kitchen knife to my car.    

It was now getting dark; the rain had increased from a drizzle to a full downpour.  Twenty or more vehicles were stopped in every direction; people were walking around the carnage, soaked and in disbelief.  I jump out of my car to the squeal of the little pig.  In a split second I assessed my options:  take the pig to the vet (try explaining this to my husband), leave the pig there suffering, or … put him out of his misery.  And so, I killed a pig.

Kneeling beside the little guy, I covered his eyes with my favorite dishtowel (I didn’t want him to see what was coming), said a prayer for the pig and for myself, and then slit his throat, all the while sobbing and wailing like a wild woman with a kitchen knife. I have never killed anything before, not with a gun and definitively not up-close and personal with a jalapeno-laced knife. Blood rhythmically spurted, splattering my clothes, my face, my hair. And then it stopped.  I knelt there, rain drenched, mascara streaked my cheeks, bloodied, holding a large knife and a floral print dishtowel with a dead pig by my side.  I tried to catch my breath.  Breathe, just breathe.  

A crowd formed.  Why, I can’t be sure.  Was it for the pig or to see the crazed woman from what must have looked like a horror movie?  Stepping out from the group came a man who had been watching the mercy killing intently.  With his cap pulled down tightly over his face, to shield him from the rain or maybe to cover his shame, the man asked, “Can I have your pig, ma’am?” WHAT?!  I wanted to tell him to man-up and kill his own dang pig, and NOT to call me “ma’am”, but I didn’t. 

So, as the pig-beggar took home his supper I called my husband, David. David laughed.  He laughed!  He tried not to, but I could hear it in his voice as he kept asking me to repeat myself, especially the part about the floral print dishtowel. 

Dead pig, rain soaked and bloody, I still had a meeting to attend.  I am nothing if not responsible, just ask the pig.  After a quick trip home to clean up, I arrived at my meeting, where a spray of blood was noticed lingering in my hair.   Out of necessity, I recited the story to an uproar of gasps and then giggles.  

This is my question:  Why … why, would you laugh at a woman with blood in her hair, a jalapeño laced knife, who has had recent practice with a deadly weapon, and is not afraid to use it?  

Oh, and don’t call me “ma’am”, call me Kelly, Kelly the Pig Slayer.