Butcher Luck

Butcher Luck
by Luke Crane
A hobbled man stood under the awning. He carried a baby Tamworth pig in a shopping bag and claimed to be going door to door, selling meat that he had butchered that morn. He had crackling, trotters for soup and ears for dogs. It was all in his backpack. He’d show us all his wares if we’d only let him in. “That’s a bad omen.” Said Sarah, after we turned the man and his black piglet away.
Across the street, starlings circled and settled on a chimney stack. I thought about the brandy snaps and halva I had purchased earlier from a seven fingered peddler. I daren’t tell Sarah about the fingers. “Maybe it’s just going to rain.” I said. “No, I don’t feel it in my knuckles.” Sarah said. She cracked every one to make sure. The starlings took off, looped the loop and returned. The pigman moved onto the next house. “Maybe we have to save that pig.” Sarah said, “I think it’s in our future.” “Maybe.” I said. I looked at the Starlings, wanting them to fly off as a sign. They didn’t. They looked settled for the night. “Hypothetically,” I said, “is having only seven fingers good luck or bad?” “Mostly bad.” Sarah said. “And say you lost them in a ferret attack.” I said. “Still mostly bad.” She said. And stormed off up the road to rescue the pig.