Red Pigs in Snow
By Verlyn Klinkenborg
Copyright © 2002 by The New York Times

A couple of weeks ago I found a small settlement of lice on one of the pigs. It was only about the width of a pencil eraser, but even that was too big. I got out a stiff horse brush and gave that pig and her companion a serious brushing, which is one of the great joys in a pig's life. Then I raked out all the old hay in the pig house, closed the two pigs inside with a fresh hay bale to tear apart, and hauled the house off to a different part of the pasture. I brush them every time I feed them now, and I haven't seen any lice since. Eventually, as I'm brushing, the pigs flop over on their sides and lie there, barely breathing, eyes closed, legs practically quivering with pleasure. I try to remember to watch just how much affection I let myself feel for them.

Affection is what we're really farming up here, farming it mostly in ourselves. Snow fell late the other afternoon, and as it thickened all around me, I realized that there is nothing more definite in the world than the top line of a red pig against the snow. I can always see the self-interest in the animals, and perhaps they see it in me too.

The Rural Life
by Verlyn Klinkenborg