The demise and deterioration of Pork Chops
I suspect this post is going to offend and/or sicken some people (this means you, Chicken), but I'm OK with that. The story has everything: a brave escape, a tragic death, a run-in with the law, unforeseen redemption, and a timely reminder to properly maintain your bean shed. It needs to be told.
A few weeks ago, two friends and I went on a research trip to New Mexico. We were cruising down a country highway at about midnight when two ghostly porcine forms materialized directly in front of our left headlight. Tony locked the brakes up, but the impact was inevitable: we nailed one of the bastards right in the head. We pulled over to assess the damage, which turned out to be significant. We said a few words to commemorate the passing of this poor pig, who was probably an escapee from a hog farm in the tiny but hugely depressing hamlet of Cotton City, about 30 miles away. Poor Pork Chops. And think how lonely his erstwhile pal Hambone must now be!
About 5 minutes after leaving the scene, we were pulled over by a Border Patrol truck, a common occurrence in country so close to the Mexican border. The agent, a friendly young man in his early 20s, approached our car to determine our destination and our business. As he neared the driver's-side window, however, a subtle wave of disgust crinkled his face, and he took a step or two back. This was a natural reaction, because the truck smelled very strongly of pig shit. It seems that Pork Chops had rocketed the contents of his rectum across the side of the truck upon being hit and whipped around.
We checked on Pork Chops again on our way back to Tucson four days later. He wasn't looking so good. His body supported tens, and perhaps hundreds, of thousands of maggots of at least 4 different species.
Then, just yesterday, we viewed the body one more time as we came back from another trip to the same site. After 2 weeks, Pork Chops had been reduced to bone and some scattered strips of leather. You could also peer through his slatty ribs to ascertain his last meal (apparently, a whole mess of beans). From a robust, 200-pound pig to skin and bones in a mere 2 weeks! Let us spare a moment to reflect upon the grim but vital efficiency of the much-maligned, underappreciated decomposers.
We were all misting up a bit as we sped away from Pork Chop's rain-slicked carcass for what was most likely the last time. And then something wonderful happened. 5 piglets scampered across the road in front of us, each one more Pork-Chops-esque than the last. We whooped and hollered, knowing that Pork Chops, and his genes, lived on. And then we frowned and grumbled, realizing that what we had just witnessed was not wonderful at all. We worried about the impact a possibly sizable population of feral pigs might have on the grasslands of southwestern New Mexico. And we wondered if the locals had bothered to pig-proof their bean sheds...
A few weeks ago, two friends and I went on a research trip to New Mexico. We were cruising down a country highway at about midnight when two ghostly porcine forms materialized directly in front of our left headlight. Tony locked the brakes up, but the impact was inevitable: we nailed one of the bastards right in the head. We pulled over to assess the damage, which turned out to be significant. We said a few words to commemorate the passing of this poor pig, who was probably an escapee from a hog farm in the tiny but hugely depressing hamlet of Cotton City, about 30 miles away. Poor Pork Chops. And think how lonely his erstwhile pal Hambone must now be!
About 5 minutes after leaving the scene, we were pulled over by a Border Patrol truck, a common occurrence in country so close to the Mexican border. The agent, a friendly young man in his early 20s, approached our car to determine our destination and our business. As he neared the driver's-side window, however, a subtle wave of disgust crinkled his face, and he took a step or two back. This was a natural reaction, because the truck smelled very strongly of pig shit. It seems that Pork Chops had rocketed the contents of his rectum across the side of the truck upon being hit and whipped around.
We checked on Pork Chops again on our way back to Tucson four days later. He wasn't looking so good. His body supported tens, and perhaps hundreds, of thousands of maggots of at least 4 different species.
Then, just yesterday, we viewed the body one more time as we came back from another trip to the same site. After 2 weeks, Pork Chops had been reduced to bone and some scattered strips of leather. You could also peer through his slatty ribs to ascertain his last meal (apparently, a whole mess of beans). From a robust, 200-pound pig to skin and bones in a mere 2 weeks! Let us spare a moment to reflect upon the grim but vital efficiency of the much-maligned, underappreciated decomposers.
We were all misting up a bit as we sped away from Pork Chop's rain-slicked carcass for what was most likely the last time. And then something wonderful happened. 5 piglets scampered across the road in front of us, each one more Pork-Chops-esque than the last. We whooped and hollered, knowing that Pork Chops, and his genes, lived on. And then we frowned and grumbled, realizing that what we had just witnessed was not wonderful at all. We worried about the impact a possibly sizable population of feral pigs might have on the grasslands of southwestern New Mexico. And we wondered if the locals had bothered to pig-proof their bean sheds...