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Proof that I used to be a farmer...
Sporky by Jennifer Ball
My pig discovered glass today. He understood that there was some insurmountable clear space which he didn’t understand, nor could he get through. Nothing more complicated than a sliding glass door to you and me, but to a pig, a trick, an obstacle that prevented him from doing the thing he did best: eat. As I stood watching my pig push and push on the glass and then finally move away from the door, I could see that he was pouting, pretending not to care. Because he could see me but was not able to root on me (the thing he did second best), he felt hurt. So he sat down on his haunches, his usual begging position, and waited. Feeling like an unfeeling human being, I slid the door open and then quickly stood aside for his immediate take-off down the plastic runway into the kitchen where he knew his food bowl awaited him. Compared to dinner, the discovery of glass was inconsequential.
I bought a pig because I wasn’t yet ready for children. I wanted something small and helpless, but something which wouldn’t require college or “quality time.” I figured, if the pig didn’t work out, we could always have dinner. That’s not an option with children.
As it turns out, there’s a lot of things they don’t tell you when you buy a miniature pig. For example, they don’t mention anything about rooting. Now, most people, if they thought about it for awhile, would probably recall that pigs do indeed root. But a simple word like “root” doesn’t adequately encompass the total interest that pigs devote to the earth. For instance, a novice like I used to be might think that they only root in France when looking for truffles. And I even did research before I bought this pig. (My husband made me.) There I was with the encyclopedias, taking down notes about their favorite foods and their favorite places to be scratched (and the favored method of preparation), but nowhere do I have any scribbled account that mentions rooting. And now, with half the linoleum gone from our kitchen, it seems that it might have been an important point to have noted.
The pig farm did send us some literature, but the literature also never mentioned anything about a pig’s “airspace.” This could simply be because airspace is a much more common term in San Diego than it is in Georgia. I myself was unaware of the term until a friend said to me the other day that she and her family almost got a ticket over the weekend. I knew that they had spent the weekend in the desert, an odd place to attract the attention of the authorities I thought. I asked her what happened.
“Oh, it started with the police flying by in their helicopters, but my father told them that they were in a private airspace and had better leave.”
I put the expression “private airspace” away in my brain where I store such words as “power tools,” “fecal material,” and “high-octane pig starter” (Sporky’s recommended pig chow). I think of these words as immediate attention-getters. These are the kinds of words comedians use. I know. I used to date one.
My friend’s father was the co-founder of a microchip company and is, consequently, quite wealthy. I suppose those kind of people can use terms like “private airspace” without feeling a trifle smarmy.
“So did you get a ticket?” I finally asked, not really wanting to prompt her.
“They tried to give us a ticket for riding quads.”
I already had had explained to me that quads are these sort of motorized tricycle-looking things. Although the tricycle ones (with three wheels) have been outlawed. Quads, logically, have four wheels, and I suppose that makes them a little more steadfast.
“Why would they give you a ticket for riding quads?”
“Oh, they were mad because we were riding through a national park.” (www.originofalphabet.com)
Proof that I used to be a farmer...
Sporky by Jennifer Ball
My pig discovered glass today. He understood that there was some insurmountable clear space which he didn’t understand, nor could he get through. Nothing more complicated than a sliding glass door to you and me, but to a pig, a trick, an obstacle that prevented him from doing the thing he did best: eat. As I stood watching my pig push and push on the glass and then finally move away from the door, I could see that he was pouting, pretending not to care. Because he could see me but was not able to root on me (the thing he did second best), he felt hurt. So he sat down on his haunches, his usual begging position, and waited. Feeling like an unfeeling human being, I slid the door open and then quickly stood aside for his immediate take-off down the plastic runway into the kitchen where he knew his food bowl awaited him. Compared to dinner, the discovery of glass was inconsequential.
I bought a pig because I wasn’t yet ready for children. I wanted something small and helpless, but something which wouldn’t require college or “quality time.” I figured, if the pig didn’t work out, we could always have dinner. That’s not an option with children.
As it turns out, there’s a lot of things they don’t tell you when you buy a miniature pig. For example, they don’t mention anything about rooting. Now, most people, if they thought about it for awhile, would probably recall that pigs do indeed root. But a simple word like “root” doesn’t adequately encompass the total interest that pigs devote to the earth. For instance, a novice like I used to be might think that they only root in France when looking for truffles. And I even did research before I bought this pig. (My husband made me.) There I was with the encyclopedias, taking down notes about their favorite foods and their favorite places to be scratched (and the favored method of preparation), but nowhere do I have any scribbled account that mentions rooting. And now, with half the linoleum gone from our kitchen, it seems that it might have been an important point to have noted.
The pig farm did send us some literature, but the literature also never mentioned anything about a pig’s “airspace.” This could simply be because airspace is a much more common term in San Diego than it is in Georgia. I myself was unaware of the term until a friend said to me the other day that she and her family almost got a ticket over the weekend. I knew that they had spent the weekend in the desert, an odd place to attract the attention of the authorities I thought. I asked her what happened.
“Oh, it started with the police flying by in their helicopters, but my father told them that they were in a private airspace and had better leave.”
I put the expression “private airspace” away in my brain where I store such words as “power tools,” “fecal material,” and “high-octane pig starter” (Sporky’s recommended pig chow). I think of these words as immediate attention-getters. These are the kinds of words comedians use. I know. I used to date one.
My friend’s father was the co-founder of a microchip company and is, consequently, quite wealthy. I suppose those kind of people can use terms like “private airspace” without feeling a trifle smarmy.
“So did you get a ticket?” I finally asked, not really wanting to prompt her.
“They tried to give us a ticket for riding quads.”
I already had had explained to me that quads are these sort of motorized tricycle-looking things. Although the tricycle ones (with three wheels) have been outlawed. Quads, logically, have four wheels, and I suppose that makes them a little more steadfast.
“Why would they give you a ticket for riding quads?”
“Oh, they were mad because we were riding through a national park.” (www.originofalphabet.com)
Copyright:
Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
Formati disponibili
Scarica in formato PDF, TXT o leggi online su Scribd
Proof that I used to be a farmer...
Sporky by Jennifer Ball
My pig discovered glass today. He understood that there was some insurmountable clear space which he didn’t understand, nor could he get through. Nothing more complicated than a sliding glass door to you and me, but to a pig, a trick, an obstacle that prevented him from doing the thing he did best: eat. As I stood watching my pig push and push on the glass and then finally move away from the door, I could see that he was pouting, pretending not to care. Because he could see me but was not able to root on me (the thing he did second best), he felt hurt. So he sat down on his haunches, his usual begging position, and waited. Feeling like an unfeeling human being, I slid the door open and then quickly stood aside for his immediate take-off down the plastic runway into the kitchen where he knew his food bowl awaited him. Compared to dinner, the discovery of glass was inconsequential.
I bought a pig because I wasn’t yet ready for children. I wanted something small and helpless, but something which wouldn’t require college or “quality time.” I figured, if the pig didn’t work out, we could always have dinner. That’s not an option with children.
As it turns out, there’s a lot of things they don’t tell you when you buy a miniature pig. For example, they don’t mention anything about rooting. Now, most people, if they thought about it for awhile, would probably recall that pigs do indeed root. But a simple word like “root” doesn’t adequately encompass the total interest that pigs devote to the earth. For instance, a novice like I used to be might think that they only root in France when looking for truffles. And I even did research before I bought this pig. (My husband made me.) There I was with the encyclopedias, taking down notes about their favorite foods and their favorite places to be scratched (and the favored method of preparation), but nowhere do I have any scribbled account that mentions rooting. And now, with half the linoleum gone from our kitchen, it seems that it might have been an important point to have noted.
The pig farm did send us some literature, but the literature also never mentioned anything about a pig’s “airspace.” This could simply be because airspace is a much more common term in San Diego than it is in Georgia. I myself was unaware of the term until a friend said to me the other day that she and her family almost got a ticket over the weekend. I knew that they had spent the weekend in the desert, an odd place to attract the attention of the authorities I thought. I asked her what happened.
“Oh, it started with the police flying by in their helicopters, but my father told them that they were in a private airspace and had better leave.”
I put the expression “private airspace” away in my brain where I store such words as “power tools,” “fecal material,” and “high-octane pig starter” (Sporky’s recommended pig chow). I think of these words as immediate attention-getters. These are the kinds of words comedians use. I know. I used to date one.
My friend’s father was the co-founder of a microchip company and is, consequently, quite wealthy. I suppose those kind of people can use terms like “private airspace” without feeling a trifle smarmy.
“So did you get a ticket?” I finally asked, not really wanting to prompt her.
“They tried to give us a ticket for riding quads.”
I already had had explained to me that quads are these sort of motorized tricycle-looking things. Although the tricycle ones (with three wheels) have been outlawed. Quads, logically, have four wheels, and I suppose that makes them a little more steadfast.
“Why would they give you a ticket for riding quads?”
“Oh, they were mad because we were riding through a national park.” (www.originofalphabet.com)
Copyright:
Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
Formati disponibili
Scarica in formato PDF, TXT o leggi online su Scribd