Dirt in my toes, dirt up my nose, I’m a perfect curse to pest control

When we last left off, we’d sent our Sweetie Pig to go visit the boar up the hill for some good grownup fun, only to discover that she hadn’t quite let down her hair enough to get comfortable with the idea. The ensuing slapstick is already well-documented.

We got a call some weeks ago:  The Boar Had Died, leaving Sweetie Pig a virgin still.  The story of the boar’s death is for another medium, perhaps, or a more bourbon-soaked post at a later date, but the point was: Sweetie Pig had not even been immaculately conceived, it was a little late in the year to consider a backup plan, so she’s going to hang out with us for some time, and we’ll have sleepovers, and braid each others’ hairs, and talk about boys and what to do with them.  Maybe we’ll practice on pillows together, now that we have time.

Of course, now that she’s not happily roaming fresh pasture all day, she’s ballooned to about twice the size, and needed to stop for frequent naps in the snowbank on the trip back down the hill.  Some day her prince will come.

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