Thorndon Flats, Wellington
The morning ritual was the same. Andrew navigated down the muddy path towards the pigpen at the bottom of the garden. The birds were waiting and a chorus of chirps and tweets greeted him as he approached the pen. The birds always helped themselves to the food that Pork-Chop missed. As usual, the sow was waiting behind the bush and Andrew could see her moist, glistening snout poking through the branches as she lie in wait for him to approach, her eyes firmly fixed on him.
With a loud series of grunts and snorts, Pork-Chop flew out of the bush towards Andrew, scattering the few birds who had already landed in the pen in anticipation of the morning feast. She slipped, one leg going down in the mud and her shoulder catching the weight of her fall as she slid a foo
