Ima Pigg

Ima Pigg

A Novel

By Elizabeth Allen

Ima Pigg

Elizabeth Allen

Copyright © by Elizabeth Allen 2013

Smashwords Edition

Was it permitted to believe that there was nowhere upon the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where they were requited for all this suffering? Each of them had an individuality of his own, a will of his own, and hope and a heart’s desire; each was full of self-confidence, of self-importance, and a sense of dignity. Was one to believe that there was nowhere a god of hogs, to whom this hog personality was precious, to whom these hog squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take this hog into his arms and comfort him, reward him for his work well done, and show him the meaning of his sacrifice?

The Jungle

Upton Sinclair

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - 2031 – What Used to be Rural South Carolina

Chapter 2 – Privately Owned Vermont

Chapter 3 – A New Dawn

Chapter 4 – What Used to be Rural Georgia

Chapter 5 – Father’s House

Chapter 6 – Butterfly

Chapter 7 – Surrogate

Chapter 8 – Leaky Cabinet

Chapter 9 – Exit Strategy

Chapter 10 – Stripping the Bark

Chapter 11 – Homecoming

Chapter 12 – Call of the Wild

Chapter 13 – Horny

Chapter 14 – Dirt

Chapter 15 – Menagerie

Chapter 16 – Stewed

Chapter 17 – Two

Chapter 18 – The Gallery

Chapter 19 – Back at the Ranch

Chapter 20 – Undertaking

Chapter 21 – On a Silver Platter

Chapter 22 – Damage Control

Chapter 23 - Sandbox

Chapter 24 - Grilled

Chapter 25 - Disclosure

Chapter 26 - Served

Chapter 27 – Venice is Sinking

Chapter 28 – Birds of a Feather

Chapter 29 – E-Day

Chapter 30 – Replanting Eden

Epilogue

Author’s Page

Chapter One

2031

What Used to be Rural South Carolina

Do not give what is holy to the dogs; nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces.

Matthew 7:6

A bristly-haired domestic pig and teenage girl rolled with total abandon in the mud. Their squeals of delight sounded so much alike, it was impossible to tell one from the other. It doesn’t get any better than this! said the pig, Calypso.

The girl giggled. The pig snorted and sputtered. Every inch from the adolescent’s head to toe and the beast’s snout to curly tail tip were coated with the cool earth slush. Both swine and human were insulated from bug bites and the sun’s burning rays. Thoroughly basted, they rolled onto their backs upon a on a bed of straw, exhaling at the same time with pure contentment.

The girl, Ima, was not a swineherd, nor was she a mere pet owner. The pig wasn’t simply a pig. Both creatures were not what they appeared to be, which to the naked eye were a human girl and a barnyard animal. Their common outward traits included soft pink skin and plumpish constitutions. In contrast, however, to Calypso’s flawless complexion, Ima’s face was dotted with an infinite universe of freckles and one nickel-sized beauty mark shaped like a crescent moon beneath her right eye. Undetectable to all others, however, the two shared a powerful bond.

As an infant and piglet, they somehow found their way to each other. They were siblings, sisters of different species. It was a very unique harmony. Although both were fourteen years old and born on the same day as it were, Calypso didn’t age at an accelerated rate like most animals. She was as young as a spring pig. While Ima, like most girls her age, dreamed impatiently of wearing make-up and donning high heels, offering up a daily plea to any attentive deity to please swell her boobs beyond the constraints of the A-cup bra, Calypso educated herself in preparation for the Therianthropic Convergence—known more simply among animals as Emulation Day.

Ima! Your supper is getting cold! Where are you, child? Geneva yelled from the back porch door, her voice barking on the last word of every sentence like it always did. She best not be wallowing in that mud again, I swear… she trailed off grumbling her discontent and returned to the kitchen. The screen door slammed loudly upon release, emphasizing her displeasure.

Geneva, or Geva, the nickname she preferred, was the housekeeper of Pigg Place. She was a beautiful black woman from what used to be Mobile, Alabama, with skin buttery brown and smooth as café au lait. One of the last of a vanishing generation of Alabamians, Geva spoke with a deep southern drawl. She was more than she appeared to be too. Geva, a single woman with no apparent family, had arrived at Pigg Place when Ima’s mother was eight months pregnant with twins. Although hired as domestic help, Geva possessed skills and powers far beyond those of regular domestic engineers of the day.

Tell me the story about Mommy again, Ima begged Geva every Saturday afternoon as the housekeeper peeled potatoes and shelled fresh peas.

Only if you help, Geva replied. Ima hoisted herself up onto the kitchen counter alongside the sink, clumsily securing her seat after three ungraceful attempts. Geva plopped the stainless steel bowl of swollen pods on the girl’s lap. Before commencing her chronicle, she preheated the oven to 325° for the lentil loaf and stilled Ima’s percussive feet from kicking the distressed pine cabinet in three-quarter time.

"Well, let’s see. Your daddy hired me just a few weeks before you were born. They were fine people, your parents, but I have to say, your folks were city-fied through and through. Even though they’d lived in this farmhouse come two years that day, I could tell they still hadn’t completely moved to the country. If you know what I mean. Not really. Not in their hearts no-ways. Especially your momma. Your daddy tried real hard but your momma, she told me she was just like the wife in Green Acres.

The wife in what? Ima asked.

Oh, it was a silly old TV show about a city couple who moved to a farm in the country. If it ever comes on again, I’ll show you it. The folks were named Oliver and Lisa, just like yours. There’s a pig in it too, as I recollect. Calypso would probably like it.

I’m sure she would. Ima agreed as she gently squeezed a pod. Although she’s not much for funny shows or even cartoons these days.

What you mean, child?

"I can’t hardly watch TV with her no more ‘cuz all she cares about is boring stuff like the news and documentaries on world hunger. Oh, and slaughter houses! So gross. And…and she makes me watch. Some of it makes me real sad. I told her I’ll never eat meat, but she makes me watch anyway."

Geva nodded simply to herself as she thought, hmm, Lypso’s starting up now. Ain’t even gonna give this girl her fifteen years. "What about your piggy discs? She ain’t watching them with you no more? She used to love Charlotte’s Web and Babe."

Noooo! Ima exclaimed and shushed Geva as if she had said a bad word. None of ‘em! She continued in a whisper. She told me it’s time to put those away.

I ‘spect it’s just a mood, baby.

Yeah, huh, Ima half-laughed. A dark mood.

Oliver Pigg passed through the kitchen on his way to the garage but paused long enough to kiss his daughter’s forehead and ask, What are you two talking about?

Nothing daddy. Just girl stuff is all.

Yes sir, Geva agreed. Ima’s asking about ‘the curse.’

Oh…yes…well. By all means, He stumbled on his words, having no inclination to discuss female issues of that or any other nature with his daughter. As far as Oliver was concerned, it was a godsend Geva was here as a sort of stand-in mother. She was the only maternal presence his daughter had known and he was relieved she could have these needed talks with Ima. He continued through the kitchen and nodded his head twice to himself until he stopped once more and asked, Isn’t she too young for—?

No, sir. She’s right on time.

Oliver nodded again, stepped to Ima and softly raised her chin with his forefinger and thumb. Don’t grow up too fast, he said and kissed the tip of her freckly nose. You’re still my precious little girl.

Ima giggled like an infant and cooed, I know, and returned to her shelling.

Oliver pinched a raw pod, bit into the crunchy greenness and chewed while he reprogrammed his thoughts to remember what he wanted in the garage—which took a moment since he was very, very forgetful. Once the elusive task had been recovered, he left.

Ima and Geva watched Oliver Pigg through the open kitchen window over the sink. He trekked his way to the garage behind the house as they listened to the loud measured ker-runch of autumn leaves beneath his heavy Timberlands.

Go on, Ima implored. Tell me more about the day you came.

So, the day I arrived, that very day, both your momma and your daddy quit eating meat.

Just red meat? Ima asked.

All meat, honey. They just up and quit.

The girl looked at Geva, cocking her head to one side. Why? Because you were a vegger? I mean, you would have cooked meat for them if they wanted you to, right?

No, baby, Geva said. And don’t say ‘vegger.’ It ain’t nice. I’m a vegetarian. Won’t touch meat, cook it or eat it. It’s not right. All living things got a right to live and die with dignity. Eating an animal—any animal—would be akin to eating a child. You want me to fry up a friend of yours? Or maybe sauté a few of your toes with lemon and garlic?

Ew, no! Ima giggled and scrunched up her nose. And so the day you came, they felt the same way. Right?

Not exactly, but something came over them…a kind of…awareness—

Like a spell! Ima exclaimed snapping the peas out of her current pod with such vitality they missed their mark and landed on the floor. Geva retrieved the fallen orbs and tossed them back in the steel bowl.

It weren’t magic, not the way you think, Geva started and then paused. Ima was still too young to understand the mission, much less the means. Once the trans-fur-mation began when she turned fifteen years old, Geva would tell her the truth. Most of it. But that was a long way off.

Let’s just say, they really liked my cooking and never missed meat.

Lucky for Calypso! Ima laughed.

Yeah, baby, Geva agreed and then quietly under her breath, lucky for you.

Chapter Two

Privately Owned Vermont

Yo ho, yo ho, it’s steak and chops for me. Pile ‘em high, give me ribs to the sky, and a plate of roasted goat! Sausage galore, venison, boar—pass the gravy boat! There’s rabbit with rice, goose liver is nice; especially in pâté. You’ll salivate when you smell a plate of bacon-wrapped filet. Yo ho, yo ho, it’s nothing but meat for me!

It’s one thing to watch movies on a colossal 152-inch screen, but when the Meat Nirvana commercial splashed her field of vision with grotesque images of slaughtered cows, split pigs, and skinned bunnies morphing into grilled Porterhouse steaks, platters of barbecued ribs and steaming rabbit stew, Danse recoiled in utter disgust. She felt as if she might vomit. Adding to her revulsion was the fact that her father, Venice McCabre, owned the company. It was his idea to display the mutilation of animals in commercials before invoking mouth-watering arrangements of their muscles and body parts adorned with glazes, sauces, and colorful garnishes all choreographed to a catchy tune.

It proved to be a brilliant stroke of marketing genius. By forcing the meat-eating public to acknowledge the grisly process from pen to plate, he eventually desensitized all but the staunchest vegetarians. No one could be in denial anymore about what they were eating and where it came from. Ducks may be adorable when they waddle and shake their little tails, but there is no room for compassion when crispy succulent duckling a l’orange is served up.

Goddamn him! Danse stroked her Bengal cat, Kitten Caboodle, who lay on her lap purring and kneading her blue jeans with his claws. The seventeen-year-old girl might have been punished for using such language, but of course, no one was within earshot. As usual, tucked inside the 10,000 square foot stately mansion, she was alone except for the servants who routinely tended to their designated tasks. Well, at least they haven’t added cats to the mandatory meat list yet. Caboodle looked up, meowed, swished his tail quickly from side to side and met her gaze in obvious understanding. Don’t worry, she continued and petted him with heavier pressure which was not entirely pleasant to the cat. Even if they do, you’ll always be safe with me. Daddy won’t let them hurt anyone I love.

That was true as far as she knew. Venice was a man of his word and kept every promise he made to his only child. He never lied to her, nor did he ever make false pledges. What you see is what you get was his motto in family, business, and life. When Danse was five years old and begged her father to stop hunting the deer with which he stocked his 150-acre reserve, he took her chin gently between his large forefinger and thumb, gazed into her large brown doe eyes, and curtly said, No.

There was no point in whining. She knew it then and she knew it now. His mind was as immovable as a mountain. Whereas reserves used to be sanctuaries for the preservation of animals, Venice’s compound was a free-range shooting gallery. Her father was a major carnivore—a meat-loving maniac through and through. It was no accident that such a man with his insatiable lust for flesh escalated to the highest station in the global meat industry. Venice had been the most successful CEO of the largest American meat company, but the Agricultural Meltdown really catapulted him into multinational stardom. He blew away all other players when his gruesome commercials shocked nine out of every ten people into eating more meat. Sales virtually tripled. The technical advances alone which he introduced to factory farming—although hideously cruel beyond anyone’s scope—kept the meat supply booming for a rapidly expanding blood-thirsty audience. Furthermore, his prominent status guaranteed friends in high places who equally appreciated his passion for hunting. It was not unusual to see black government limousines escorting senators and other politicians onto the property from time to time for a rousing weekend of scotch, cigars, carbines and carnage.

Danse sank into herself, saddened, disgusted, and disappointed with her lineage. She constantly sought but never found that happy medium between loving her father and hating his murderous propensity. Each time she thought of him, she felt tortured to be his only descendant.

Miss McCabre…Miss McCabre? The deep thickly-accented voice of Ruud, the household manager, broadcasted from the television, muting the current program automatically. Your bovine friend is at hand.

My what? Danse questioned back to the screen.

"Your pet, het kleine hert is hier," he explained, unconsciously reverting back to his Dutch roots as he was prone to do on occasion.

In English please, Ruud—

Danse heard him briefly consult with one of the cooks and come back with, "the dier, she has come round for you."

Oh. Okay, thanks, Ruud. I’ll be right there. And by the way, please don’t call her bovine. She’s not a cow! Danse snapped back at the television but Ruud had already disengaged the intercom. The TV volume resumed, brusquely silencing her retort.

Demi, a full-grown whitetail doe with a grayish-brown winter coat and gorgeous brown eyes that could melt the coldest heart, patiently waited on the deck which led to the servants’ entrance. Although she weighed in at nearly 142 pounds, she was dwarfed by the backdrop of the immense forest behind her, its edge lined with conifer trees of white cedar, balsam, fir, white spruce, and jack pine.

Adorning her neck and distinguishing her from all other deer was a brilliant crystal-studded pink leather collar with a rhinestone buckle and matching crystal heart charm which delivered just enough jingle as to be heard by any attentive huntsman. Demi was the only deer in the entire reserve to brave the open and she ventured it daily to be near her human.

Can you come to the woods today? My mother would like to say something to you, Demi’s lyrical voice requested of the only person with whom she could speak.

Right away? Can’t it wait? I wanted to show you this old movie I found, Danse said. Eagerly, she pointed back toward the mansion, leaning as if the direction of her body could lure the doe to acquiesce to her bidding.

I…suppose, Demi cast an uneasy glance to the edge of the forest. She turned back to Danse with a hard, obvious swallow causing the little crystal charm to ring softly. It’s just that Mother really—

Oh! I’d love Mother to see this film. I think you’d both appreciate it.

The deer cocked her head slightly and stared at Danse from beneath her brow. You know Mother can’t leave the woods. No one but me—

Actually, never mind. I’m kind of hungry so…okay. Let’s go now. The movie can wait.

Danse skipped a few steps back toward the kitchen door and hollered, I’m walking with Demi! which may or may not have been heard by the kitchen staff above the whirring coffee grinder and the rattle of assorted pans.

The girl was restricted to walking the fringe of the reserve—at least until she was out of anyone’s watchful sight. Venice forbade Danse, just as he had her mother, from ever going into the forest unless she showed interest in hunting. His conditional prohibition carried the same weight with his daughter as it had his wife, which is to say, none. There was, however, that one time when he insisted Danse learn to fire a rifle. Despite her protests, he set up bottles as targets and instructed the seven-year-old on how to hold her weapon. Unfortunately the little girl had the bulky rifle chocked up too far on her shoulder and when she fired, the gun recoiled sharply. The scope kicked fiercely into her forehead. She woke up in a hospital the next morning.

Once home after all stitches had been removed, she stared in the mirror and examined the quarter-moon shaped wound. It would heal but in time the scar would rise above the skin becoming a keloid which would be impossible to conceal with cosmetics. It would always stand out and always remind her how much she hated her father the hunter. Danse could only wonder if her mother, Frances, had shared Venice’s penchant for blood when they first met. Had her mother been a hardhearted hunter, or did she love animals with the same sensitivity that Danse felt toward all living things? Sadly, Danse was only two years old when Frances died and all she remembered was a delicate scent of patchouli when her mother held her near. Aside from that memory, she knew precious little. Venice never spoke of her except to say she died in an unfortunate accident.

Frances had, indeed, loved animals. She was also a strict vegetarian when she was introduced to the young, dashing Venice McCabre. From the end of their third date until just days before their third wedding anniversary, she questioned how she could have ended up with the Meat Nirvana king. While it was a constant source of unhappiness for her, Frances loved Venice and tried to turn a conflicted, albeit blind eye to his darker side. She soothed her moral dilemma by violating his rule day after day as she ventured into the reserve. Flaunting her defiance, she wore bright colors and sang a happy