My interest in pigs is confined to foodstuff -- like Homer Simpson, I am awed that one animal affords bacon, carnitas and baby back ribs, among other fare. Pigs are far less interesting while alive. Indeed I've nothing to say on the subject.
But E.B. White does.
I spent several days and nights in mid-September with an ailing pig and I feel driven to account for this stretch of time, more particularly since the pig died at last, and I lived, and things might easily have gone the other way round and none left to do the accounting.
It's among the best essays in The Atlantic archives, not least because the knowledge that the pig dies cannot help but function as foreshadowing: