I went to the market today and brought home a squigglepig. Or maybe he’s the Squigglepig, as he was the only one in stock and the store owner knew very little about him. Squigglepig doesn’t seem to know very much about himself, either.

He’s an interesting fellow, and only partially resembles a pig; more accurately, he looks like some piglet-hedghog hybrid.

We spent some time investigating Squigglepig’s diet. He doesn’t like cereal. Or chicken, or carrots, or mushrooms, or limes, or beer, or candy, or canned squid. He ate celery and strawberries, but took his fondest liking to Goldfish.

After our meal we stared at each other from opposite couches. He sat on his hind legs, his paunch hanging slightly past his knees. His eyelids drooped a third the way over his eyeballs, and he rarely blinked. He wasn’t overly interested in his surroundings and displayed little sign that this sudden change of scenery fazed him in any particular way.

I can’t say the same about myself. I stare at this creature in wonder; I wonder what it is, where it came from. I wonder how old it is, and on what level it functions. Surprisingly, despite its lack of enthusiasm for seemingly anything, I don’t find myself wondering why I purchased him in the first place.