There once was a pig who built no fence, but somehow owned the whole field. He didn’t farm. He didn’t sweat. But every season, the rows changed shape, just slightly to suit his taste. And when the rain came, he always seemed to be standing somewhere dry.
Near the edge of the same pasture was a hound. Not wild, but not exactly loyal to the people who fed him. He barked when told, turned away when not, and knew when to chase and when to stay still. Some said the pig trained him. Others said they were just raised under the same roof.
When the well ran dry and the hydrants failed to sing, it was the mule that paid the price, dragging weight in silence, pulling wagons full of water toward houses no one cared about until they were ash. The pig called it progress. The hound called it routine.
One day, the pig got fatter. A bonus, they said. Deserved, they claimed. The mule got tired. And the hound just circled, waiting for a new scent. But by then, the pasture had changed again. A few trees were missing. Some fences looked different. No one could remember when the signs were switched.
Ask the animals. The mule remembers. The pig denies. The hound pretends. And the field?
It’s still growing, only now it whispers under every hoofprint:
“You were seen.”