My grandfather had three pigs. They were called Chruscha, Phila and Stepa. They said they were my pigs and they should be watched. I regularly went to feed them and clean the pork. It was fun and very exciting. In playing I imagined myself as a fairy tale hero who would help the pigs and defeat the evil wolf. I was terribly jealous of my friends when I talked about these amazing and already grown-up beauties.



One morning I noticed a large number of men and women at the pig farm. They laughed and drank. I heard the wild whisper of my pigs and ran toward them. After running, I saw how the neighbor’s grandfather, by a clever movement, killed Phile, who was lying on his side. I was caught and held, laughing at my hysteria.

Further, I remember the smell of a petroleum lamp, smelling the death of the intestines in the pelvis, a bunch of people who chose a piece better.



The words of my grandmother:

What are you cheering? But you still have a cock, call it Petya!