Willie gets a stay

Willie gets a stay

A short story by Paul McClaskey

I was about six years old when my big brother went off to war to kick
hell out of the axis powers. I didn't realize at the time the effect it
would have on the rest of us. To begin with my brother's absence left
only my dad and mother to milk the cow, stake the cow out for grazing,
feed the chickens and "slop the hogs." We had the farm animals because
we had just come through the "great depression" only to be confronted
with a world war and with rationing and all it threatened to leave the
cupboards bare. My parents were very independent people and practical
too. We had a very large garden that provided all our vegetables, so we
were quite self sustaining. Besides working in a steel mill my father
was loaded down with work. My being a child didn't excuse me from the
"chores", but it did protect me from the hard work. One of my chores
was to bring wood for the fire under the large tub of water kept
boiling for the slaughter of pigs and chickens.
I hadn't ever witnessed butchering other than chickens. My dad was
efficiency itself with the chickens, we had an old tree stump set up as
a chopping block and in one motion my dad would plop the chicken on the
block and lop off its head and pitch it over the fence where the poor
beast would run in circles gouting blood like some crimson geyser until
it either ran out or it became aware of its being dead. My mom took
over then and would soak the chickens usually we would kill two unless
we were having company and then there would be more. She'd dunk that
chicken in that boiling water and snatch those feathers off that bird
just as slick as you please. I was all eyeballs on these occasions and
I guess I was learning a lot, at any rate I found it all fascinating.
And Now I was going to assist the butchering of a pig, I was
thrilled.
My dad just didn't have the stomach for butchering anything other than
chickens, there he drew the line. When the need to butcher cattle or
pigs arose we sought the services of "Old Paul," I never knew his last
name, but he was a rather tall man of Slavic descent and quite enamored
of the grape I was to learn later that it was difficult to find him
sober, but if you were going to get him you had to catch him early in
the day. My dad had gone to get "Old Paul" early enough and Paul
assured my dad that he'd be right over, but first he had to run to the
feed store as he was out of grain for his own animals.
I ran around and piled up enough wood for the fire and laid it on good
as I wasn't going to miss a thing this day. My dad had to supplement
the water several times while we waited and we waited. My mother, never
one to suffer human frailties in silence, offered the opinion that "Old
Paul" was most likely somewhere pissy-assed. My dad understood right
away what she meant, but it caused great consternation for me. Nobody
in our family drank so I wasn't aware of what drunk was, but
"Pissy-assed?" I've always been blessed or cursed with an imagination
and I was really trying to put this one together. I knew what piss was
and I knew what an ass was, but for the life of me I couldn't imagine a
person being pissy-assed. To compound the problem I wasn't allowed to
swear so I was very reluctant to ask for a more thorough explanation
and my sister wasn't there , so I was on pins and needles. I finally
concluded that whatever being "pissy-assed was it was something that
took a lot of time.
Finally my mother said "To hell with this, let's just do it
ourselves."
My dad reluctantly agreed and went after the pig. Dad rigged a harness
of sorts around the pig's neck and behind his front legs and the pig
went right along like the family dog. When they got to the spot for the
slaughter my dad removed the harness and my mother handed him the
butcher knife sharpened to razor sharpness. My dad approached the pig
from behind and slipped his left arm around the pig's neck and raised
his head up to expose his neck. The procedure was then to take his
right hand and slit the pig's throat severing his jugular vein so he
would "bleed out."
Now, a pig's eyes are very similar to a human's eyes and this pig had
some great big blue ones and he looked my dad right square in the eye.
My dad froze where he stood and didn't move for a moment and my mother
became impatient.
"What the hell are you waiting for cut his damn throat and let's get
it over with."
"I can't"
"Oh shit, give me the damn knife and I'll do it."
My dad handed her the knife and she grabbed the pig around the neck
and jerked him into position and the pig promptly locked on to her
eyes. Mom stood there holding that pig and my dad laughed so hard he
almost threw his back out.

"Can't do it either can you?"
We had that pig for another four or five years and wound up selling
him. We named him Willie and he was a pet for all the time we had him.
I never inquired after who bought him or what became of him I'd rather
think he lived to a ripe old age.