In which Earnest the pig continues to write in his musings in his journal
June 3, 2016 Maine
I live much as I did, wallowing in dust after mad baths, waiting for a breeze to blow off flies and in the inner peace that I am always fed and watered.
The children are growing. They are right in the paddock beside me, with their mother and the tall elegant white lady who smiles a lot. I like her, she is somewhat odd in her movements but much like a giraffe I saw on National Geographic when someone copped that old TV out of the old barn. That was a great night for all of us.
We had rain yesterday, a torrent really, unheard of back at our old homestead. It left the paddock nearby flooded, but I slept through most of it. The rain here comes through the summer I'm told. This will be a treat.
As usual I think about love making some, with Eleanor right next door. We are set up nicely though, we are the right height to visit with noses and eyes and heads. But they secured it so I can't get to her. This is both comforting and exhausting. We don't need more children right now, they are the consequence of seconds of my release. But it's nice knowing she is there. Living amongst other species is fine, but as a pig, I feel at one with another pig.
It might appear nothing much happens in my journal. But I have yet to uncover percolations that were brought to the surface, briefly, as we travelled. And there are different sounds here, from the wood.
