Chester

I love animals, but not so much pigs.  They smell.  I have a very keen sense of smell, so pigs are not my most favorite animals to be hugging!  However, I do smile when I see a pig.  I can’t help but picture my lovely mother, back in the lighter days of her youth, with her pig “Chester”.
My mother had a horrid childhood; filled with abuse no one should hear about much less endure.  She has become bitter and isolates herself from the world.  Her stories always turn to anger and self pity…until you talk about “Chester”.  This is my mother’s story.
Chester was the tiniest piglet.  The one that everyone knew would be crushed by the mother if left with the others.  So, my grandfather brought him into the house to place in a box by the fire.  I was to give him milk and any food I could smash up enough for him to eat.  I named him Chester.  He was a cute little pig.  Chester grew quickly.  One day he decided the box was no longer meant for him and out he popped.  Running hither and dither, he knocked over every stick of furniture he bumped.  Grandma took one look and yelled, “Out!”  So, out Chester went.  Down to the barn we went to be with the other pigs.
I didn’t stop feeding Chester just because he was no longer allowed in the house.  I brought him stolen bits of bread and any leftovers I could sneak out of the house.  I would detour past the barn every morning before school and give him his treats.  One day, he got loose and decided to follow me down the road to the school bus.  I was worried he would get lost and couldn’t think all day of anything else.  Upon my arrival home, there was Chester at the end of the drive waiting for me!  What a darling pig! 
Now, I was a small girl and Chester was getting to be a very strong, large pig.  I decide it absurd for the two of us to be walking up this long drive! So, I rode Chester home.  Yep!  Me and my pig.  He met me almost every day after school at the end of the drive, so I could ride him home.  Grandpa thought it quite funny, Grandma not so much.  I sure loved that little pig.
The lines in my mother’s face seem to soften and I can see some of the sorrow in her eyes disappear with each memory she recants of life on that farm.  Gee, I love that pig!