Butcher Day

Last Sunday I helped my dad load up the borrowed trailer with his ten pigs. It was a beautiful day, bright sun. The pigs thought something suspicious was going on, but luckily were more interested in the wet mushy grain that we scattered up the ramp. My dad came behind them with a board, pushing them slowly. He's been getting more and more into animal husbandry over the last 5 years, but this is his least favorite part.
"The pigs are being murdered as we speak," Dad announced the next day at breakfast.
"Butchered honey, they're being butchered," Ruth corrected him.
I guess it's a matter of perspective.