In the Mountains

Strangely enough, the air was warmer in the West Virginian mountains than it was in southern Maryland.  The sky was clear and the sun strong, two contributing factors to the glowing radiance of the dying leaves around us.  As the feeble, gray clunker hobbled ever upwards over cumbersome potholes, little grunts emerged from the backseat of the car.  Startled by the abrupt end of what had been a smooth and restful ride, Finnemore and Chesapeake began conversing on the roughness of the roads, futilely looking about themselves for some way to predict the next bump, trying to adjust to the ensuing instability.  The windows just beyond their reach only offered to them flashing images of trees and leaves and one, long, steady stream of sky behind them.

Eventually, the trees and the leaves stood still.  The stream of sky became a still pool and the gray Toyota dropped anchor at the edge of the gravel road.

The bumps of the road ended, the grunts from the backseat faded away as well.  The car door opened.  Suddenly, Finnemore felt himself lift into the air.  He looked around at the blue sky about him and the massive wood surrounding him, the hills and the valleys.  He looked at the car below him.  He had read about such occurrences, about pigs who had inexplicably fainted, who had not woken up.  Briefly gazing below, he saw a black pig body on the backseat that resembled himself.  “That must be me,” he said quietly to himself.   “The roughness of the road was too much,” he thought, “I didn’t make it.  This is my final destination.”  But then he remembered that Chesapeake was also in the car, his brother.  He glanced again at the motionless pig body below.  It moved.

Slowly but surely Finnemore felt himself moving towards the ground until his front hoof touched.  It wasn’t some ethereal, otherworldly paradise, it was still the world he knew so well, only a different part of it.  Soon Chesapeake joined him.  And together the two trotted into this foreign land, cautiously but hopefully.

Chesapeake Eating an Acorn

It was not long before Chesapeake discovered an acorn, perfectly sweet and perfectly ripe.  He bit into it.  He crushed it with his strong porcine jaw.  He smiled simultaneously.  Finnemore smiled seeing his brother’s smile.  He ate an acorn of his own.  And then another and another.  Golden acorns, leaves, and other delights were everywhere as if they were literally falling from trees.  “No, this was not an ethereal, otherworldly paradise,” thought Finnemore, “but it would have to do.”