M&M&HP (cont.)... Oh No Michael!

[Guest guest]

IV. MY PIG

 

 

Word came about a month later, on a May Friday, that we were to meet

at a gas station in Petaluma the following Monday morning, 6 a.m.

sharp. This time it would be just the two of us.

 

We spent the first part of the morning doing the circuit of Angelo's

customary spots, patrolling first the ridge in the A.T.V. and then

moving down into the lower forest on foot. The entire day, I kept a

round in my chamber. We staked out a wallow deep in the woods and

then a trampled clearing of ferns on the near side of the hill that

abuts the road, but saw no signs of boar.

 

A little after 9 in the morning, we were walking together down a

logging road cut into a steep hillside when we were stopped in our

tracks by a grunt so loud and deep and guttural that it seemed to be

coming from the bowels of the earth. A very big pig was very close

by. But where? What direction to look? The sound had no address; this

was the grunt of the ground itself, omnipresent, more audible to my

torso than to my ears. We crouched down low, making ourselves as

inconspicuous as possible, and I listened as hard as I've ever

listened for anything before, listened the way you listen when you

hear a strange sound in the night.

 

I needn't have strained so, because the next sound we heard was

nearly as loud as the first: the sharp, clean crack of a branch,

coming from above us to our right, where the thickly oaked hillside

climbed to a crest. A stream ran down the hillside and crossed the

path in front of us about 30 yards ahead. With my eyes I followed the

silvery line of the stream up through the woods to the crest, and

that's when I saw it: a rounded black form, a negative of sunrise,

coming over the top of the hill. Then another black sun, and another,

a total of five or six, I couldn't be sure, popping over the crest in

a line like a string of huge black pearls.

 

I touched Angelo on the shoulder and pointed toward the pigs. What

should I do? This time my gun was pumped of course, and now, for the

first time, I took off the safety. Should I shoot? No, you wait,

Angelo said. See — they're coming down the hill now. I followed the

pigs with the barrel of my gun, trying to get one of them in my

sight. My finger rested lightly on the trigger, and it took all the

self-restraint I could summon not to squeeze, but I didn't have a

clear shot — too many trees stood between us. Take your time, Angelo

whispered, they will come to us. And so they did, following the

stream bed down to the road directly in front of us, moving toward us

in an excruciatingly slow parade. I have no idea how long it took the

pigs to pick their way down the steep hill, whether it was minutes or

just seconds. At last the first animal, a big black one, stepped out

into the clearing of the dirt road, followed by another that was just

as big but much lighter in color. The second pig presented its flank.

Now! Angelo whispered. This is your shot!

 

I could sense Angelo a step or two behind me, preparing to take his

shot the second I took mine. We were both down on one knee. I braced

the rifle against my shoulder and lined up my sight. I felt calmer

and clearer than I expected to; at least when I looked down the

barrel of the rifle it didn't appear to be wagging uncontrollably. I

took aim at the shoulder of the grayish pig, aligning the sight's two

parts — its U and I — with the top of the animal's front leg. I held

my breath, resisted a sudden urge to clamp my eyes shut and gently

squeezed.

 

The crystal stillness of the scene and the moment in time now

exploded into a thousand shards of sense. The pigs erupted in panic,

moving every which way at once like black bumper cars, and then the

blam! of Angelo's shot directly behind made me jump. One pig was

down; another seemed to stagger. I pumped my gun to fire again but

the adrenaline was surging now and I was shaking so violently my

finger accidentally pressed the trigger before I could lower my gun;

the shot went wild, skying far over the heads of the rioting pigs.

Something like the fog of war now descended on the scene, and I'm

uncertain exactly what happened next, but I believe Angelo fired a

second time. I collected myself just enough to pump and fire one more

poorly aimed round before the pigs dispersed, most of them tumbling

down the steep embankment to our left.

 

We ran forward to the downed animal, a very large grayish sow beached

on her side across the dirt road; a glossy marble of blood bubbled

directly beneath her ear. The pig thrashed briefly, trying to lift

her head, then gave it up. Death was quickly overtaking her, and I

was grateful she wouldn't need a second shot.

 

Angelo clapped me on the back and congratulated me

extravagantly. " Your first pig! Look at the size of it. And with a

perfect shot, right in the head. You did it! " Did I do it? Was that

really my shot? I thought my first shot had dropped the pig, but

already that moment was blurred irretrievably, and when I saw what a

clean shot it was, I suddenly had my doubts. Yet Angelo was adamant —

he had fired at a different pig, a black one. " No, this is your pig,

Michael, you killed it, there's no doubt in my mind. " Our hunting

story was taking form, the fluid confusion of the moment rapidly

hardening into something sturdier and sharper than it really

was. " What a great shot, " Angelo continued. " You got yourself a big

one. That's some very nice prosciutti! "

 

Meat I was not yet quite ready to see. What I saw was a dead wild

animal, its head lying on the dirt in a widening circle of blood. I

kneeled down and pressed the palm of my hand against the pig's belly

above the nipples and felt beneath the dusty, bristly skin her

warmth, but no heartbeat. My emotions were as surging and confused as

the knot of panicked pigs had been on this spot just a moment before.

The first to surface was this powerful upwelling of pride — that I

had actually done this thing I'd set out to do, had successfully shot

a pig. I felt a flood of relief too, that the deed was done, thank

God, and didn't need to be done again. And then there was this wholly

unexpected wash of gratitude. But for what exactly, or to whom? For

my good fortune, I guess, and to Angelo, of course, but also to this

animal, for stepping unbidden over the crest of that hill, out of the

wild and into my sight, to become what Angelo kept calling her: your

pig. More than the product of any labor of mine (save receptiveness),

the animal was a gift — from whom or what I couldn't say, but

gratitude seemed in order, and gratitude is what I felt.

 

The one emotion I expected to feel but did not, inexplicably, was

remorse, or even ambivalence. All that would come later, but now, I'm

slightly embarrassed to admit, I felt absolutely terrific —

unambiguously happy. Angelo wanted to take my picture, so he posed me

behind my pig, one hand cradling the rifle across my chest, the other

resting on the animal. I couldn't decide whether to smile or to

compose a more somber expression. I opted for the latter, but I

couldn't quite manage to untie the knot of my smile. Nor did I

register, yet anyway, the slightest disgust at the creeping stain of

the animal's blood on the ground, the stain that I remembered Ortega

calling a " degradation. " I was still too excited, too interested in

this most improbable drama in which I had somehow found myself,

playing the hero's part.

 

almost done....bob