Herbert

In the summer of many past moons when a lesser mortality was on me I used to keep a variety of animals. They were a distraction to my life. I had a smallholding. This is not a personal reference. Said smallholding was two acres. Again this is not a personal reference, but currently a bit closer to the truth.

Along with the chickens, sheep and goats I had an exotic stock of golden and silver pheasants, peacocks and a pot bellied pig. The pig’s name was Herbert. This was my father’s name.

After I had mucked and bailed and fetched and carried as was my want a bale of hay was the most pleasant of surroundings to relax on. It was my sofa of that era. I did however also bring a friend. A bottle shaped friend.

I would merrily get merry and tell Herbert al my tales of woe. He would look quizzically at me and grunt. On occasions I would drink so much I would fall asleep. When I awoke the quizzical Herbert was still there, my guardian angel.

I once told this story to a lady I knew. She told me a similar story of a pig that was there when she awoke. Her take on this I may add, I couldn’t comment on I was not the pig in question,

I really struggled with this portion of my life. I was trying to be St. Francis without going to Assisi. He too preferred the company of animals to humans. No unfortunately the only connections I can make with saintly activities is the monastic existence my life was to become. The parable nearer to my journey is that of the prodigal son. He too woke up to his life.

One big difference nobody has yet thrown me a party.

Maybe that’s because I’ve not yet reached home.