Telling porkies

Nush used to dine on piggie bits back in her farm girl days and loved pigs trotters and pigs heads and other assorted porcine things (they go great with rotting possum, I suppose), so I bought her a packet of common or garden domestic pork trotters from the supermarket a few weeks ago. I gave her one; she sniffed. She sniffed again. She mouthed and licked and spat it out, declaring it unfit for canine consumption.

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 the tooth all the teeth I have left are my own and sometimes I can be quite sensible and helpful (even more than I am bluntly, opinionatedly and forthrightly assertive in a stroppy sort of way) and if the Simons of this world can't handle it, that's their problem.

Isn't it?

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.