our abuelos had a pig named chacho. he was a fat ass pig, a big one. i was around ten, i believe. no matter what they did to prevent chacho from escaping, the fat ass found a way to get out, and he would run loose around the block. neighbors came knocking, letting the family know that chacho was at it again.
“anda traer ese marano!” abuela would yell at abuelo, and there would go abuelo, chasing down chacho and bringing him back home.
like all pigs, chacho stunk like a pig. but he was cool. he’d let us pet him, even though he knew one day we’d be eating him. all the children loved chacho. at one time there was a goat that kept chacho company. i don’t remember his name, but he did have a goat-tee, which i always found funny.
the day arrived where fat ass chacho had to leave this world. at least his soul did, and his body went into our bellies. it was a sad day for all of us. it took two or three bullets to the head. my uncle shot him. he was a cop, and the best trained shooter of anyone in the family. chacho fought a good fight, his body kicking and jumping, until he stopped shaking. immediately chacho started getting chopped to pieces, and smaller pieces. the family shared the meat. there were two or three large garbage bags of chicaronnes. those were delicious.
stories of chacho are still shared. his memories may have not been as tasty as his skin, but they’ve lasted longer and bring laughter to our family.