Alice was the runt of three litters born on Easter Sunday morning way back in 1978. Right from the start, she was a people pig, and she loved to be loved on. We would start at her snout, scratching, and work our way down her back. When we got to her little curly tail and pulled it straight, she'd stiffen up just a might and fall slap over, hitting the ground like a block of wood. She'd lay there for a minute without moving, then after a while she'd grunt, and raise herself to her feet, and go on about her business. The first time she did it, we thought she'd keeled over dead. After we got used to it, we'd just laugh, and Mama would say, "Now that's one relaxed pig."

Of course we all knew better than to strike up a relationship with a pig we knew was going to end up on our plates. But with Alice, you just couldn't help yourself. She was too little for the pen to hold her, and so she would come and go as she pleased, bathing in the creek, chasing the ducks and running around in the yard playing tag with the dogs until she heard the trough being filled, and knew it was suppertime.

When the rest of the litter was big enough, we sold off most of them at auction, along with the sows; the rest we put in the freezer. And so for a while there, we didn't have any pigs except for Alice. I guess it was about that time she stopped remembering she was a pig, and started thinking she was a dog. She'd come running with the rest of them every time she heard the Purina being poured, and stand at the bowl on the back porch, and eat and snort and defend what she reckoned was her portion. Sometimes we had bones to toss to the dogs, and we'd toss one to Alice too.

We were all crazy about Alice, but for some reason she took a particular shine to my Daddy. He couldn't ever leave the house without her running to his side and begging for a pet, then tagging along beside him. Daddy always claimed not to care anything for Alice, saying that she was a pig, and a pig was as good as a pork chop in his estimation. But he'd scratch her behind the ear none the less, and let her trot along behind whenever he took the tractor up the mountain to collect firewood.

Months rolled by and the seasons changed a few times, and all the while Alice was growing bigger and fatter. We knew she was getting to be a full fledged hog, but it never really sank in until one day when the Preacher came to call, and Alice set out to greet him. I guess the sight of a two hundred fifty pound pig running at you could be a little startling at that. Anyway, Alice had the Preacher pinned on the hood of his car, and she was snorting and sniffing and pawing his fender whenever we finally heard his shouts and came running. "Brother Wright!" he called, and I swear you'd have thought he'd just spied heaven.

Not long afterward Daddy decided it was time for Alice to go where pigs should go, and so we said good bye to Alice. She was a good pig, we all agreed; the best. But she was a pig, and we had always known what would become of her in the end.

Mama thought it would be a nice gesture to cook up one of Alice's hams on Easter Sunday in honor of her birthday, but she cried the whole time she was preparing the meal, and still wiping the tears from her eyes when she set Alice on the table. None of us had much of an appetite, and Daddy laughed at the lot of us for being foolish enough to think we could make a pet of a pig. But I noticed that Daddy wasn't very hungry that night either. And in the weeks that followed, whenever he took the tractor up the mountain to gather firewood, he didn't linger nearly as long as he used to, but hurried on home and settled into the rocking chair on the front porch where Alice used to sit at his feet, and beg to be scratched, and snort with all the pleasure of a pig that didn't know it wasn't a dog.