On Saturday, I took my family to the Los Angeles County Fair, which contains four thousand acres of smoked turkey leg booths, plus some rides and animal exhibits. We saw the cows, the goats, the chickens, the horses, and the little carnival fish you can win if somehow — somehow! — you’re able to tip over three heavily weighted “milk bottles” with a carefully imbalanced softball.

But what I really wanted to see were the pigs.

I like pigs. I admire their optimism and their team spirit: They’re always rooting for something. I like to watch them, and pet them, and also eat them. In theory at least, I like a pet that you can eat when it’s outlived its ability to greet you cheerily at the door, and pigs fit the bill. A couple of years ago, a friend of mine in Omaha adopted a baby pig and let me hold it at a party, and when it fell asleep in my arms, I was in hog heaven. I’d like to have a pig like that, but so far this idea hasn’t gained any traction with my wife. But if I can’t have the pig (for now), at least I can go admire them at the county fair.

So it was that I read this particular story with great interest, about a 70-year-old Oregon farmer who somehow got eaten by his hogs. This is not the natural order of things, at least not since we overtook nature about 100 years ago. (And the natural order before that was to be avoided at all costs.) Apparently, all that was found of him were his dentures. As for the rest: R.I.P. — Rest In Pigs.

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