Please Don’t Judge Me for Collaborating with the Humans Eating Us

I know what you’re thinking: Traitor. Sell-out. Quisling.

I see the look in your eyes as you pass me. The hatred. The judgement. And don’t think for a minute that it doesn’t bother me, because it does.

However, I need you to understand something. You might think you wouldn’t be caught dead working for the humans. Perhaps you believe you’re above it. You like to think that had you been presented with the same opportunity you’d have spat in their smushy faces, or oinked at them.

But the fact of the matter is I’m a swine with a family to feed. I mean swine in the literal sense, not the derogatory term the humans use.

The humans offered me a chance to make some money. To stay alive. I agreed. You would have done the same, I’m sure of it.

You accuse me of cheerfully inviting humans to come in and dine on the fantastically seasoned flesh of our fallen brothers and sisters. I think if you really take a look at my expression, you’ll see it’s not cheerful. It’s fearful. Yes, I work for humans, but I hate them with the fire of a thousand Big Green Eggs.

I’m just doing a job. There’s no blood or BBQ rub on my hands. I’ve killed no one. If it weren’t me standing here, it would be another pig. Maybe you. Maybe a friend of family member.

And I’d rather it be me. Why? Because I have a plan. My plan requires that I get as close to the humans as possible, staying silent. Observing. I’ve already said too much. Suffice to say, I’m working toward a time when we won’t be humanely killed, rubbed with a medley of aromatic spices, slow-cooked over hickory and served with a delightful array of sauces.

I’ll be brutally honest: The smells coming out of there are phenomenal. Our meaty flesh must be simply divine.

I can’t blame the humans. I’d eat me if I were them.

But I’m not them. I’m one of you. I need you to remember that and believe it because I know some day there will be a comeuppance and I need you to know where I stand. I’m not a traitor. I’m one of us.