Parable: Gratitude

At times virtue is a torture, kindness a crime.

Think of the pig whose right rear leg was made

of solid wood; straps on his belly kept it in place.

But isn’t this the pig that saved the farmer’s kids

from the river? Hadn’t he fixed the timing belt

on the farmer’s Ford? The farmer patted the pig

on the head, gave him a smooch on the snout.

But to a friend he said: A pig like that you don’t

eat him all at once. Soon a second leg was gone.

The pig shingled the roof, painted the house,

dug a new well. The farmer gave him cookies

and let him sleep in a featherbed, but the farmer

began grinding his teeth. He had headaches

and peculiar fits of temper. He asked himself:

Have I gone nuts seeing all the pig has done?

The pig milked the cows, made cider, pickled

cucumbers and beets, canned the kumquats.

Soon the farmer had trouble sleeping at night;

he quarreled with his wife, yelled at the kids.

What’s the farmer’s problem anyway? Such

is the burden of emotional debt. Each step

he took felt like a spike through his foot. His life

became a minus sign, a spot well below zero.

When the friend came back, the pig’s front legs

had been turned to hams and he was strapped

to a kid’s skateboard. I’m saving the best for last,

the farmer joked. The pig sang to the hens so they

laid more eggs. He taught the kids to yodel Bach.

The storm cloud above the farmer’s head grew

to the size of Texas. He felt worse than sludge

at the bottom of a well. Soon the pig was gone.

Good to the last drop, the farmer told his friend.

Right away, his house began to fall apart;

the barn roof collapsed; a fox ate the chickens.

The farmer welcomed each crisis with a smile.

He slept like a baby. His sex-life grew robust.

On a tombstone by the barn were the words:

This was one smart pig! Freed from the curse

of obligation, the farmer polished his vulgarity;

he drank straight from a bottle and shot craps

with his friends. His spouse played sex games

with the gas man; the kids gulped down mind-

confounding drugs. Each felt reborn. Is this

what we call normal? They splashed about

in the great, warm bath of milk called happiness.

They lounged about in the jubilation of disregard.

Virtue became a nasty word like dog-shit or fart.

The kids tossed rocks at every truck that passed.