Pigs and squirrels
On a crisp, cool Sunday morning in October of 1993, I hit a pig.
There. I’ve said it. Now the horrible family secret is known to the world. It’s a nightmare I have carried with me ever since. The pig, not so long. The particulars surrounding that dark day aren’t important right now. All you need to know is that I was minding my own business, driving along at a law-abiding 55 miles per hour when a pig came out of the roadside weeds and crossed my path.
It was a good-sized beast. Not as large as you would find getting a blue ribbon at the county fair but much bigger than Arnold Ziffel from Green Acres. An animal that you would not expect to see emerging from a ditch as you drive along in your Smurf-blue Chevy Corsica.
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