Don’t Name Them

The pig’s name was Clover.

But he never said it out loud. Not to his father. Not even to Clover. Only once, whispered into her ear when the wind was loud and the barn door rattled like it was trying to run away.

Clover used to follow him, nudge at his boots with that wet snout, then collapse beside him in the hay and snore like an old man. She liked the sound of his voice when he read aloud. Especially the cowboy stories. Especially the parts where nobody died.

“Don’t name them,” his father said. Every time. “Names make meat heavy.”

But Clover had a name. Had a favorite spot behind her ear. Had a way of looking at him like she knew something no one else did.

Now she hangs from the hook, steaming like a ghost.

His father is already elbow-deep, hands slick, humming that low, broken tune. There’s a plastic tarp beneath her now, stained from others. The knife glints. The boy can’t stop staring at her hooves.

“Get over here,” his father says—not unkind, just flat. Like always. “You’re old enough.”

He steps forward. He can smell her skin—still warm, still hers. His father slices clean down the belly. The organs fall soft into the tin.

“That’s the heart,” his father says, holding it up like a trophy. “Looks big, don’t it? But it’s just muscle. They all look big, till they stop working.”

The boy nods. Swallows. His throat burns.

“What’d I tell you?” the man says, eyes on the blade now, not the boy. “Don’t name them.”

“I didn’t,” the boy lies.

But in his pocket, his fingers close around a small, dirty ribbon. One he tied around Clover’s leg two months ago. Just once. Just to see if she’d keep it.

She had.