Days have turned to weeks, and the weeks are turning to months. St. Patrick was sent to tend to the pigs after his capture and enslavement, and he was to become one of the greatest of Saints. My father is with him, and I am here. The farm continues to sustain my animals, though we are running very low on grain.
Tomorrow I take Harriet to the butcher. She has been of all the pigs, my very favorite. I could have taken her to the auction today and gotten a few dollars for her, but the thought of sending her through the ring (handled roughly by those fools) is too much. Some thanks that would be for all her contribution to the farm. I gave her to my butcher. I like him, and he will treat her well.
Nine of the market hogs leave with the buyer at 11am. I fed them their last meal on the farm tonight.... I have done as best I can for them, and soon it will be done. I'm alright with this. It is my responsibility to see to them from birth until the end, the out come of their life as inevitable as mine. What is of importance is not so much the end, but the days and how we spent them. I am alright with this.