Pigs, Dogs, the Ozone Layer, and the Enigma of Humans

 Pigs, Dogs, the Ozone Layer, and the Enigma of Humans Ernest wallowed around in his pen, lapping up the mud onto all parts of his opulent porcine flesh. He was happy. His pen was empty today and he could enjoy his 9th birthday in relative peace. He rolled over, smearing more mud onto his back, gave a joyful flick of his ears, and settled down to a mid-afternoon nap, looking forward to the pleasant thought of more slops from the trough in an hour or so. 

The sun beat down, attempting with difficulty to permeate the stench-ridden mud on Ernest’s back and side. Some of it managed to fight its way through to the pinkish flesh, UV rays biting deep into the exposed epidermis. Ernest did not care! He could burn as much as he wanted today; he was nine, after all. It did not concern him that there was ozone depletion in progress. Nobody tells pigs anything, anyway. 

He heard the soft padded footfalls approaching the pen from the barn and raised an ear to monitor the progress of whatever was nearing his enclosure. He could tell from the rapid motion that the interruption was four legged and probably Seymour, the border collie. Bugger, he thought, the last thing I want to do today is converse at length with some demented sheepdog on the merits of chasing one’s tail. 

 Ernest feigned sleep, ensuring his tail switched just enough to indicate to anyone watching that he was deeply unconscious, slowing his breathing to provide further evidence of his subconscious state. Hopefully, Seymour would be persuaded by this not to ‘wake him up.’ 

"Hey, Ernest, I know you’re awake," yapped Seymour. "What ya doing?" Ernest settled down even further into his fabricated deep sleep pattern, hoping the dog would be fooled. This bloody collie could be damned persistent, though. 

"Ernest, I have some news for you. Wake up," he yapped, even louder than the first time. Ernest then knew it was useless and abandoned the falsehood. 

"Yes, you moron, what do you want? Something about some news, did I hear you say?" Ernest pulled his bulk over to his belly, placing his legs strategically under his body, and used his powerful muscles to push the 400-pound weight onto his cleft hooves. Just to give the dog a bit of an insight into his annoyance at being disturbed from his reverie, he emitted a loud belching grunt, and let rip with a well aimed fart in the direction of the dog for good measure. Seymour backed away, the strong smell assaulting his sensitive nostrils and setting off his stomach in small, nauseated coughs. He moved to the upwind side of the pen, and squatted on his back legs, waiting for the pig to approach him. 

"Yes, Seymour, you bloody cur, you have my attention. What is so damned important as to wake me on this fine day?" "Do you know why you are in your pen today by yourself?" asked the dog, a sneer spreading across his features. His mischievous behaviour was disturbing Ernest. Seymour was normally a peaceful, honest working dog, only taken to occasionally playing pranks on his penned mates. Ernest was puzzled. 

"Come on, spit it out," he demanded. "You obviously know something that affects me." 

"Well, I was up at the farmer's cottage earlier, sniffing the backside of that suave Snookie, you know, the white poodle that lives up there, and she kept on giving me the come on. So, I tried to get on for the ride of my life, and the farmer’s wife comes out of the house and gives me a good stiff kick on my hindquarters, just as I was about to - you know?" 

Seymour turned his head towards his tail, licking the ruffled fur on his rump, the target area. He looked back and continued. 

 "Anyway, I hightailed it around the house and hid under the veranda, licking my wound. Guess who else was under there?” 

Ernest cocked his head to the side, signalling for the collie to continue, as he no doubt would. 

"Jasmine and Sooty, those two cats that spend all their time locked up inside the house," said Seymour with surprise. Those two cats outside? What did this mean? thought Ernest. 

"Outside?" quizzed the pig, somewhat perplexed by the relevance of this information. "Yeah, seems they got caught doing it on the lady’s bed and were banished. Anyway, they were talking about something when I interrupted them. They asked what I was doing under the veranda, and I told them my tale, whereupon they told me theirs. We shared a little laugh, then Sooty piped up and asked me, 

‘Do you know why all the pigs, sheep, and cattle have been sent away?’ and I replied I didn’t know they had." At the mention of his porcine mates, Ernest pricked his ears to listen to what the dog was about to say. Something important had happened, and he hadn’t been aware of it. 

"Go on," he said. Just as the dog was about to continue, a loud human vocal explosion erupted from the farmhouse, the farmer obviously discontented with something. The sound of "Bugger it, damn, fuck, bugger, bum, fuck it!" ripped through the still country air. The animals in the vicinity of the tirade cringed in fear. The master was not a good person to be around when he was like this. Then another tirade: 

"Bloody ignorant fools. When are they going to get it? I ask six simple questions and all I get is fucking fools, fucken madmen, and deranged bloody idiots replying, thinking the world is created for their mother beeping pleasure!" 

Silence ensued as he settled down again to his business. Seymour, who had laid down at the outburst, crawled over to the pen, closer to the pig, to finish his revelation. He bunched his strong sleek leg muscles for a quick getaway, in case the pig decided to assault his nose again. 

"The master has apparently changed his ideals. Polly was sitting in the study, watching him on his computer, reading some stuff, and he turned around and started talking to the parrot as if Polly would understand. Which, of course, she does. Anyway, he says to her, ‘I am now a vegetarian. No more grazing animals creating holes in the ozone layer with their methane emissions, no more killing animals for humans to digest and get sick on, no more chemicals to assist with the rapid growth of the grass, and no more guilt. I am becoming an environmentally friendly farmer.’ 

 Polly says she was bemused by the context of what he was saying but he seemed dead serious." Seymour leapt to his feet, moved around the pen to the water trough and lapped up some discoloured water. Man, he got thirsty when he talked. Ernest followed him over and had a drink himself, just for good measure. The story was going to be lengthy and, he felt, important to his longevity. 

"Anyway," continued the dog. "Polly says the master then rings up some cartage company and overnight they take all the animals away. He then rang an organic hydroponics distributor and signed up the farm for the organic growing of vegetables. Bizarre! I am out of work, you survive for some reason, and the world changes because of some computer information. There’s no figuring these humans," concluded the dog. 

"Yeah, no figuring," replied a pensive Ernest. "Why have they kept me, then, do you think?" 

"Well, they kept four cattle and one pig, so my guess is he is happy to have some animals around to help with the natural fertiliser if you get my drift," responded Seymour. I can be quite insightful at times, thought the collie. 

 Ernest mused over this information. Of, course; I am to be kept as a faeces production plant! How ignoble. I am going to grow old producing piles of crap for the 18 vegetable gardens. Oh, woe is me! No more meat in my scraps! I am an omnivore, and I need meat. Why do the decisions of humans have to affect us bloody animals all the time? He wondered, then, why pigs could not fly, because if he could, he would be out of there in a jiffy. Then he thought, a flying pig! Huh. Would need a wingspan the size of a small Cessna to carry my large frame around. The pig dismissed Seymour, thanking him for the discourse, and settled down once again. He made sure his mud-caked body was revitalised with its natural sunscreen and started thinking about the changes that had been sprung upon him. Okay, no more mates to grunt with, no more sows to try it on with, no little ones to piss him off, and a pen all to himself. Not a problem. The meat scraps - that was a problem. But if it meant the gap in the ozone layer would close and negate the need for him to cake himself in mud, so be it. The weirdest of things, however, was the challenge this presented to the humans. They could make a small difference by killing all the grazing animals, but how on earth were they going to kill their transportation animals, those metallic objects they drove around in? And were they capable of not growing onions and capsicums and other vegetables that made them fart? He thought not! 

 These humans were a bloody enigma, he thought, as he went to sleep in his pen by himself, under the bright midafternoon sun.