This is going to be pretty disgusting. Fair warning.

Part of the preparation for my wedding to a Polish woman who grew up in a very rural area was a pig killing. My father-in-law bought a pig from a farmer some months before the wedding, and then about two weeks before, it was time to kill and dress the pig.

I shot some birds with a shotgun when I was little; I killed a mouse out of mercy because my cat was torturing it — I’ve never seen anything quite that big killed before.

My father said “pig” is the wrong word. “It was a hog,” he says.

I’ll spare the gruesome details for now. What astounded me was the behavior of the butcher’s grandchildren. I was sick to my stomach a few times (but taking pictures nonetheless), and they were running around as if it were a Baptist picnic.

And they sat for a moment, and I was able to get the above picture.