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I grew up in a place where hunting was not only for sport, where it was not uncommon to hand-raise the animals that would later be featured on your dinner plate, where you might choose to keep the body of the moose that just crushed the front end of your pick-up truck.
As a consequence, when it comes to the death of a four-legged creature, I am a bit more hardy than your average suburbanite.
This is not to say that I don’t feel bad when I run over a squirrel, hit a bird, or squish a frog with my car. (Alright, I confess: minivan. There. I’ve said it. No judging. It’s a practicality that I will be thrilled to discard when the time comes. Let’s move on.)
We were driving to camp late one night. I had Medium and Large with me; my husband was transporting Small separately. I was tired but I couldn’t wait to get to our rented cabin.
I had hoped the kids would sleep on the three hour drive from home but they were equally excited and had kept themselves awake by singing Viva La Vida in rounds at the top of their lungs. I was driving slightly faster than was legally permissible.
By the time I noticed it crouched by the side of the road, it was too late. It scuttled. I swerved. And then that sickly sweet smell permeated everything.
“What was THAT?” called Liam from the way-back.
“Oh, honey, it was…” I felt awful. Poor little thing hadn’t had a chance when my hulking vehicle bore down on it.
“Was it a SKUNK?” he cried. “I know it was a skunk because I saw the white stripe and then I felt the bump and now it smells bad and…” The current of his stream of consciousness carried him to the inevitable conclusion: “YOU KILLED IT!”
“I’m sorry, Liam! Obviously, I didn’t mean to hit him. It’s dark and he ran right out into the road.”
“There he was, minding his own business and then YOU came along and killed him!” He accused me like a prosecutor in front of an attentive jury.
Nora’s softer voice queried, “Is the skunk dead?”
“Oh yeah, he’s dead!” Liam responded.
“Mommy killed the skunk!” The jury had bought it. Everyone but the defendant burst into tears.
I rolled my eyes at all the drama.
“Liam! Nora! Stop it. I didn’t mean to do it. Sometimes, things like this happen. It was an accident.” I paused. The smell was overwhelming. “Ugh. It stinks!”
Liam sniffed and made choking noises. “You know what that smell is?”
I was weary of this conversation. “It’s the skunk’s spray.”
“You know what that smell is?”
His repeating himself was not a good sign. The van reeked to high heaven, we were miles from our destination, and Liam was running along the ridge-line of hysteria.
Nora took the bait. “What is it?”
His voice rang with reproach. “It’s the Smell of Sadness.”
Red cabins, backlit by the morning sun. Mist blankets the surface of the lake. Colorful towels flap in the breeze. The crunch of gravel announces an approaching guest. The screen door slaps. Laughter. Crayfish city. Freshwater clams. The ever-present purr of a jet ski. Five minutes of blessed sunshine for every fifty minutes of cloud cover. The slap of waves against the kayak. Cold beer. The company of good friends. Watermelon. S’mores. Sticky faces and hands. An uncomfortably small shower stall. The happy shrieks of children who have made a discovery–perhaps a new friend, an old crustacean, an almost tame flock of ducks. Or maybe it’s the certainty that life, in that moment, is good.
This is Summer.
He crept down the stairs carefully. He had been charged with a mission. His small chest expanded with pride even as he considered the difficult nature of his task.
He padded over to the wall separating the living spaces and peered around the edge of the doorframe.
She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Bothered was seated at the kitchen counter, her brow furrowed and her expression inscrutable.
He took a deep breath. It was time. He entered the room with his head held high.
“Mommy?” he queried, his voice shaking only a little. “S’okay to get up now?”
He watched his mother turn away from the seductive glow of the computer screen. He tensed his body—prepared to flee upstairs in an instant should it be required.
She met his eyes and smiled. “Yes,” she said in a convivial tone, “I think you’ve had a long enough nap.”
Success! He immediately ran to inform his Queen. 
“Oh, yay! Nowa! Mommy not gwumpy anymore!”
Nora accepted the news calmly from her seat at the top of the stairs. Nodding her approval, she told him, “Good job, Henry.”
After eating a balanced lunch of Chef Boyardee ravioli, half a PB&J and a handful of strawberries, Henry patted his belly and said, sighing with pleasure, “Now DAT was yummy, Mommy.”
I endeavor to prevent Piggy from joining us on family excursions but my efforts are for naught as Henry tries equally hard to keep Piggy with him at all times.
Piggy is Henry’s first great love. 
When he presses her snout to his nose and gazes adoringly into her black eyes, the rest of the world stops and it is only them — a pig and her boy.
When Henry is hurt, he wants Piggy’s comfort. When he is elated, Piggy helps him celebrate. When he is tired, only Piggy’s snuggles suffice.
And just the other day, we lost her. In a department store.
We were almost at our vehicle when I looked down and realized that Piggy was missing. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Henry, where’s Pig?”
He stared at the cement sidewalk as though she might materialize. Shrugging his shoulders, he mumbled, “I dunno.”
I was disturbed by his blasé reaction. His one-and-only Piggy might never be seen again and his response was to shrug?
Henry’s attitude was casual, at first. But when the porcine puff was nowhere to be found, he began to search the store in earnest. “Mommy! What if we don’ find her?”
Moments later, his worried tone turned gleeful: “Dere she ith! Thee, Mommy, I find her!” He buried his face in her body and cooed.
Driving home, a flash of pink caught my eye. Piggy was hanging out the window; her red and purple ears flapped wildly in the breeze. I yelled for Henry to bring Piggy inside the van.
“But she’th hot!” he protested. “She wathn’t thcared! She liketh it!”
My voice shook with exasperation. “And what if you dropped her? You should be keeping her safe. Let’s not lose her twice in one day!”
Why are we careless with the ones we love?
Piggy may know, but she isn’t telling.
OINKtales 
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