Once upon a time, a long time ago, as a youth I

followed in the footsteps of my father, a farmer.When the heat of the summer comes in full force and slowly rises as the dew subsides, he would visit his hogs to inspect them. And of course following his every move, I'd be right behind him, headed toward the hog pen. Well, it wasn't a pen, but staggered pines and schrub oaks held together with thrown away fence wire. Like a jigsaw puzzle, it was held together with haywire, pieces of boards nailed to one another, yet it held the
hogs inside. While he would call them, souie, souie, I'd sit under a resurrected pine tree. A barkless spectre, one that had been hit by lightning and killed,
only to rise again. Dad would summon again his anxious herd, his tone as eloquent as if he were courting an English maiden, and all the hogs would come running up,
excited and happy, as if he held some spell over them.
Such devotion, such loyality, such love, I witnessed.A rare sight among beasts, and I wondered at such a young tender age. Could people have the same?