I was gob smacked, how could she not like fresh pigs feet?
So yesterday, when Glorious gave us some home killed bacon, a bacon hock and a couple of trotters, I nearly binned them thinking Nush wouldn't bother.
She bothered all right. She gave one a good going over yesterday afternoon, before leaving it to mature through a night's winds and a morning's hot sun and at lunch time sat down with clean paws and bib tied to feast upon her treasure. Through most of the afternoon. And this evening. She only stopped because it was getting dark and cold and Nush had noshed herself into a state of doggie satisfaction.
I guess it's true, our domestic market produced pork is so bad that even the dog won't eat it.
Truth is a funny thing and I was thinking about it whilst sorting out the last bits of the vege garden this afternoon (as you do). What is THE truth? Is it the same as OUR Truth? Truth is just a subjective thing that carries the weight of personal experience or personal belief based on a million different things, isn't it? Is it not a living, breathing, dynamic thing?
We hold our truths inside; they guide us, they shape our world. We inhale the truth of the world around us, identify and filter out pieces that mesh with and update our own opinions and exhale the remnants of ideas or ideals altered and in doing so grow a little every time we open ourselves up to change. If we don't change, we don't grow. Well, grow up, anyway.
My truths are simple. I am Fabulous, Darling. OK so I'm fat and sick and old and poor and not much to look at on a good day and rather blunt, opinionated and forthright (that's a nice way of saying assertive, which is a nice was of saying stroppy) but I have a wacky sense of humour, can carry a monologue with flair, have nice hair and
But the truth is that, even being this fucking terrific, I still get to spend my life alone. There is no knight in shining armour on a white steed coming to save me because someone ate his bloody horse when the pork they bought from the supermarket wasn't fit even for the dog. You know, it's no fun being sick all by oneself, even when the drugs are good (which most of them aren't) and that's one Truth I hold to be self-evident.
Of course, I believe in UFOs and justice for all, too.
Whoever said Life would be fulfilling and nurturing was no doubt lying and probably raised pigs.
That's the problem. Half the pork we get here isn't domestic anyway. They import it by the container load from Canada where the pig farmers are highly subsidised. Its funny, but Misty won't eat trotters either, but he will pig in to a feed of pork bones.. Am I the only being on this planet that enjoys a good feed of pigs feet? Oh & BTW, I feel truly humble that such an erudite & sagacious exalted being as yourself actually finds the time & energy to condescend to be my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my poor little imperfect heart..
You mean the pigs are aliens? Refugees from the cold, out of a shipping container? Immigrants? Better not let Winnie know that! As for your poor imperfect little heart, there are exercises you can do for that, you know. And Lotto and make up. You could carry your make up in your man-bag handbag, the one I'll buy you for Chrissy *snigger* And never fear, I'll condescend to you any time you like, I might even throw in some patronising for free! Bonus!
You never watched Pigs in Space ? Tusk tusk tusk... As for a manbag, you know where it will get kept if you do give me one don't you ?
You'll use it as a colostomy bag for flying pigs? BTW they have cute little pot frogs for $1.99 at the Red Shed, their whimsical cheeky faces would go well around your new pond.
Thanks for the heads up.
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