Carlton the Homeless

After he fled from the castrating devils at Ironwood, Carlton had a difficult time. In fact, he had several difficult times. There was little scavenging to be done in Marana, Arizona and he nearly starved before flying to Phoenix.

Once there, he fell in with a carefree collection of vagrants and scofflaws. Many were military veterans. Some were simply bums, alcoholics, and dope fiends. They treated him well, though, and he was fast accepted as one of the boys. Few noticed that he was a pig. He was admired for his ability to acquire a seemingly endless supply of half-eaten hamburgers and packages of french fries from dumpsters. Like his new friends, he spent most days sleeping. His hoofs grew long and pointed. After dark, he made daily trips to Saguaro Lake where he played in the water and was able to drink his fill.

Long ago, he had forgotten his adventures as a piglet and his memories of enforcing the law in Colorado City were becoming fragmented and disjointed. He sometimes wondered if it had all been a dream.

His new companions seemed to live on gin, reefer, and scraps of discarded food. Carlton refused to accept booze or drugs when they were offered to him. For some reason, he preferred to maintain a clear mind. Sex partners were non-existent (though some of his fellows and gals offered it to him on a daily basis). At his age, he sometimes wondered whether he should return to Marana and allow himself to be neutered. His little corkscrew didn’t seem to have a purpose.

Then, one day, a discarded newspaper blew through the homo jungle he was living in and the picture on the first page startled him. He didn’t take time to read the accompanying article, but the picture clearly showed that in Boston, a statue celebrating masturbation had been erected.

“I’ll be darned,” he said. “I guess I’ll keep the thing for awhile.”