The greatest pig in history still couldn’t use a pencil properly. The people around him gave that no mind, no personified pig had ever spoken back to them in such a dignified manner, absorbing the queens English rapidly. The vocabulary of the pig was expansive, using vowels and his knack for knocks on the door got him snacks if he did it three times on command.
The pig grew used to the single stream of people that came to see him perform. Simple tricks, performances that shocked the simple humans that looked onward. But one day there was only a hundred paying customers at the zoo, causing the managers to question the pigs easy lifestyle of not being bacon. Then there were ten visitors, causing the pig to learn how to tap dance, a different tap on a different hoof rattling the floor for the bored handful texting to those watching the singing snake.
The Pig met the snake once, while taking a photo collection together. The audience for that day was down, but that was due to the weather and the pleasure of the people spending their days in the warmth. The snow was between them and their friends and the talking animals at the Indianapolis zoo.
The snake was a nice person, if you could call him that. A man, if he was one, was big on the letter S. Which makes sense, given the pretense established by the long tongues they wore. What a bore he was, going on about supply side economics and hooked on phonics and the like.
The pig stayed away from him, except for the formal appearances. But there were no more shows to be performed. The Greatest Pig in history was out of a job, as of today.
“What a fine pig roast we’ll have tomorrow.” Said the Zoo keeper to his boss.
“I’ll get the guest of honor first thing.” Said the bossman.
The pig didn’t know what a pig roast was, but he assumed it was a TV special of some sort. In that case, there would be at least one more show. One more day to dance, and sing, and play. It would be a good day, the pig told himself. Time to get some sleep.