The Fat Pig

Before the butcher comes to kill the pigs you have to move them inside to a small space where they can be easily caught. Two days ago we began the process of moving the pigs into the cow shed in preparation for the Fete de Tue Couchon.
Two of the pigs came easily. The other stayed behind, laying in the shack, unmoving.
I walked into the shack and kicked it a little to get it going.
It still did not move.
I shouted a little and it stood up.
Then it layed back down.
I shouted a little bit more and finally it waddled down to join its companions.
It walked 10 slow meters and its back legs started to tremble and then completely give way. It fell and started rolling down hill legs flailing in the air.
Now this is not just a hill but more or less the steep side of a mountain and if you have actually never seen the shape of a pig then I am sure you can imagine it in your mind. They are basically just made for rolling.
I stood there, mouth gaping, as this pig picks up speed, completely shocked and unable to move. Alfred, infinitely less clear headed in situations such as these but also considerably more active, runs down and stops the rolling tub of lard with his feet.
Ìt lays there, breathing.
I regain conciousness, ``You have to kill it!,`` I yell.
``But I don`t have a rope...or a knife,`` Alfred yells back.
He stays with the pig and I run to the house, fetch rope and knife, and return.
Fat pig is no longer breathing.
``It`s too late! He`s dead.`` Alfred looks angry.
``It`s still fine. Just do it.`` (I know nothing about the situation except that Alfred is generally very quick to give up.)
I tie the rope around one of the poor beasts ankles, around a nearby tree, and hold on as Alfred plunges the knife into its fatty throat. Fortunately blood comes gushing out onto the ground.
Well then comes the next problem. To prepare a pig after killing you generally scrape it clean after killing with boiling hot water and spoons (yes, spoons) thus removing the first layer of skin and the hair. Well we have no boiling water. But it`s ok because Alfred heard once that you can just burn it with straw. We get straw and matches and burn the sad, dead, fat pig`s carcass.
The smell is abominable. Indescribable. The worst thing ever. Period. And I have to scrape away at the burning, blitering flesh with my little knife.
All this in a wind that you have never seen before in your life.
In the end we called Nicolas who came, calm in his tractor, smoking a cigarette and asking for a glass of white wine, to hang, gut and decapitate the Fat Pig all before nightfall.
Today I had a nice delicious cutlet and I can assure you that at least the meat was saved.