The Location of Labouring Three Little Pigs: A Fable
Nicholas Rickards, Ph.D. Student
Faculty of Education, Brock University
University Lecturer & Middle School Teacher
Such is the aestheticization of politics, as practiced by fascism. Communism replies by politicizing art.
- Walter Benjamin, 1935
Once upon a time, three little pigs found their way in the world. By hard work, accident, and the myth of meritocracy, the three pigs found fortune, solace, and servitude all to varying degrees.
The first pig was cozy in his little straw house. Other animals said he was lazy but he worked hard tending to his garden. The second pig was comfy in his house made of sticks and liked to keep his distance from the unsavoury straw houses down the lane. He worked hard all day making mortar and dreamed of one day building his house of brick. The third little pig was very lucky; he was given tools and all the bricks needed to make his house sturdy, safe, and sound.
One day, a big bad wolf with a fancy wristwatch and fine clothes came to the first pig’s house.
“Little pig, little pig, I know what you need, please pause, let me explain. If you move down the way, you can have a bigger garden to plant grain. You must concede some space, some inconvenience for now, and you must go live with the other pig down the lane.”
“But what of my garden and my cozy straw house?” said the first pig.
“You move on and I’ll hold it down,” grinned the wolf.
With the wolf’s guidance, the first pig packed his bag and with a hop, skip, and a jump made it to the second pig’s place where they lived together in the house made of sticks. The first pig grew a garden twice as big so that they could both eat and the second pig began to enjoy the first pig, even though the first pig was from a straw house. They lived together in harmony until the wolf came a-knocking.
“Oh, little pigs, little pigs, please understand, this is not working. I have a much better plan. Move to the brownstone with the third pig down the lane, not much will change, it will be close to the same.” The wolf paused and with a huff and a puff, so sure of himself, he addressed the two little pigs.
“You,” he pointed to the first pig, “can garden in the greenhouse, much cozier and just as plentiful as toiling in the dirt.”
The first pig nodded in agreement, back sore from his labour.
“You,” he pointed to the second pig, “can make mortar from the brownstone and enjoy the comforts of brick which you covet so.”
The second pig smiled. Finally. . . a house made of brick.
With encouragement from the wolf, the two little pigs packed their things and skipped down the lane to the third pig’s brownstone. Together, the three little pigs lived quaint and happy. The first pig grew food in the greenhouse and the second pig made mortar. Although he mostly tended to the hot oven under the chimney, the third pig helped the first two pigs with their tasks.
One day, the wolf came a-knocking. “Little pigs, little pigs, you must move again. You’ve had it good so just take one more on your chinny, chin, chin.”
The pigs agreed that they were tired of moving for all their work could be done from the brownstone. What was the point? So, they agreed to deny the wolf.
“No,” said the first pig. “My garden is better than it’s ever been.”
“There is no need,” said the second pig. “For I can make mortar for the brownstone while living in it.”
“We’ve put locks on the door and I have the keys,” said the third pig.
The pigs were unnerved by what they saw through the peephole standing on the other side of the door. The wolf chuckled to himself, his pleasure hard to ignore.
“Gooood,” whispered the wolf on the outside of the door. “The straw house was demolished and the stick house is scraps. You’ve come this far and there is no going back. You can till, and grow, and build right here. I’ll leave you for now and come back to see you next year.”
The three little pigs managed to get by just fine. They had food from the garden, mortar for the house, and the oven under the chimney to keep them warm. However lovely their rhythms seemed, the pigs started to unravel a bit at the seams. While the first pig toiled and the second pig built, the third pig tended only to the oven, always holding the keys hanging from his neck. In time, the first pig and the second pig decided that they were ready to start over and rebuild their houses made of straw and sticks.
“Please,” said the first pig. “Can I have a key to the door?”
“I’m sorry,” said the third pig. “You must stay here”.
“I would very much like to leave,” said the second pig. “I miss my stick house.”
The third pig turned from the oven, his silhouette wavy from the fire licking behind him.
“The wolf will be back soon, you cannot leave. The doors are locked both ways and only I have the key.”
The first pig stopped and the second pig trembled.
The third pig looked at them with a blank stare. “He gave me the tools and all the bricks to build this spot. He doesn’t like coming in here because it’s a wee bit too hot. You,” he pointed at the first pig, “make food so that we can sustain. You,” he pointed to the second pig, “make mortar so that we can share space all the same. I like living in the brownstone, but these bricks are not free,” said the third pig, tightening his apron. He reached for the heavy butcher’s cleaver on the countertop. “I make roast ham for the wolf. It’s his favourite meal, can’t you see?”
References
Golding, Ashlea. (2023). A spark of inspiration and a dash of encouragement while brushing her teeth before bed. The Master Bath.
