> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.merionwest.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # All the Way Home - URL: https://www.merionwest.com/all-the-way-home-wils-hosken/ - Published: 2026-10-26T13:52:45.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-26T13:52:45.000Z - Description: Wils Hosken - Author: MW Editors - Tags: Fiction, Arts *When released into the wild, domestic pigs may undergo a transformation, by which they turn into wild boars. Their morphology will change, adapt to their environment, but their minds stay the same, trapped inside the thing they’ve now become.* --- Dogden tumbled against the asphalt, his bright pink and white fur bruised and beaten from the fall. His legs toppled over and behind him as he rolled, his hooves scraping against the ground, and his ears cut from the rip and tear of his ear tag coming off. He was bleeding now, that was something he had to address. He was also no longer with the others. How did that happen? He tried his best to recall with the throbbing headache in his mind, the pounding of his rattled brain bracing itself against recollection. He was on the truck. No, he *had* been on the truck. The truck, as far as he understood, was the large metal thing by which he and many others were transported to and fro to destinations unknown, be it the County Fair, be it the place of no return, or back to The Farm. In this scenario, they had been making a return from the County Fair, as Dogden recalled. The point, notwithstanding, was that he had been on the truck. He was confined to a small cage (that he remembered). He remembered that because they had lured him in with a treat and he found it uncomfortable. Dogden had decided to try to explain that to the farmers, but regrettably, their language skills were lacking. What else did he remember? Yes! He remembered there was a latch on his cage, a rusty old thing, they really should get that replaced, but there was a latch on it! And then the truck drove, and as it drove, there was a great and terrible bump! Yes! The bump! What was that bump? Alas, he could not see from his position on the back, but he recalled that the latch broke, and thus, he was flung from the back of the truck, now landing here on the road. Excellent! His memory was in full working order. Now, he had to ensure the rest of him was also working. What a marvelous checklist he had to do. Quite exciting! Dogden moved to stand up and felt his body impulsively wince. Oh, that wouldn’t do. He was hurt. Yes, he was! Farmer! Farmer! No use. They likely couldn’t hear from the truck. Blasted thing! He would have to reach them later. For now, what was the damage? Nothing was without movement, that was good. So, Dogden stood up and assessed the damages thusly. Ahem. His ear tag had been torn (good; it irritated him anyway). He was bruised (manageable). He had suffered a scrape (bad but not dire). And he was alive. Conclusion: Difficult situation, but he would adapt. Dogden shook his head, the shake spreading to the rest of his body as he wiped the stress of the situation clean. Now, back to the truck. Aha. Problem number two was presenting itself. For one, the truck was now further away, and secondly, it was continuing to do so in an efficient manner. That was most unfortunate, as Dogden was not as fast as a truck, nor were most things, though he could imagine that the bull Carney would most assuredly give it a good Oxford try! Dogden thought perhaps alerting the humans to his presence would assist him in not dying. A good show indeed, but alas, unsuccessful, for the truck was too loud and the calls of his brethren outnoised him. This was a far more difficult situation than Dogden had hoped for. Perhaps out of some desperation, or worry, Dogden continued to call out, soon watching the truck crest over and out of sight, passing deep into the thick winding roads of the yellow countryside. Ah. That meant the farmers were gone. As were Dogden’s companions. That made this all the more unfortunate, as they were also the ones who provided him with food, water, and slop, the jubilant combination of food and water that served to provide the sustenance required of either. Dogden was alone. … They would surely come back, right? … And how long would that take? … Dogden laid his eyes upon the bump in the road, a large, fur ridden animal. Its eyes were blackened, its body limp, strung to the side. Deer, they called them, because whenever you hit one, the reaction would be ‘oh dear’, or, if you were the farmers, ‘Oh F###! Stupid #####!’. The truck’s impact seemed to have slain the beast. Impact from a truck would result in death. Such information was important to know. He looked down at the deer with disgust. What a haphazard, emptyheaded *thing*. It thought about nothing, but for its next meal, no doubt. Dreadful *nuisance*. Such a beast would fare poorly in the farm or the world of man, where purpose was grounding and all too certain. His revelations regarding the truck came to meet him, and he found they were more than relevant soon enough. Dogden heard a noise, coming not from ahead of him, where the truck had gone, but from behind him. Object permanence told him that it was unlikely to be his farmers. More likely, it was something else. It sounded truck-like. Dogden moved to the side, having known that trucks could only travel along the roads. Therein, he quickly saw another truck, devoid of pigs, rush past, aiding the deer in its decomposition with its tires. Lesson most *certainly* learned. The following was then true: he was no longer on the truck. The truck was headed home, to safety, to food, to his fellow companions. Trucks must travel only along roads. To be in the way of a truck results in death. If trucks could only move on roads, and the truck was headed home, therefore, the road must lead home. However, to travel directly on the road results in death. Therefore, the most logical course of action was to follow the road closely, but not so close that Dogden emulated the rotting beast. Therefore, his passage to home would be certain. That was one problem solved. Now, question: where was he? Dogden sniffed the air, his nostrils snorting as he detected the following: corn, wheat, serpents. Yes, that affirmed his suspicions. He was on a road passing through a field, the yellow locks towering over him, the thick scent of grain on the wind, the wayward ratsnake coiling through to snatch any unfortunate rodent thieves who would make the mistake of trespassing in these lands. The wind did well to approve of it, a rush of brushing sprouts, rustling and shaking in the deep yellow burning gleam of a sunrise, peeking out over their grain. Under any other circumstance, it would be beautiful. But Dogden had to get home. He shifted off the road into a thick, muddied ditch, where the crayfish hid during the rainstorm, and where now he hid from the road. The muck was thick and the bespeckled bracken brush that braced along the side of the byway, fighting for its existence despite the circumstances, served as a fine treat for the wayward swine. He trotted alone, his hooves rattled by roots, occasionally passing by the wayward serpent that fetched itself into the brush out of fear. Up ahead, crows saw fit to crest downward onto the wheat rows, the scarecrow of the field dethroned by wind and time. Dogden continued without issue, the rush of the wayward truck serving to chill him and frighten him, but not deter him in his quest. He had heard once that dogs would often attempt a similar quest, though as canines, of course, getting lost was far more frequent. Dogs made good conversation, an intellect similar to those of swine. He recalled one Remi, a large boisterous beast, a thick gray fur mutt with an ill definition of restraint. He received far better treats than the pigs did, but the young lad had a heart of gold to him, and a brain of the pea-sized variety. On the rare occasion his master wasn’t present, he would come listen to the pigs, talk with them. Once, Dogden regaled to him the wonders of the County Fair, where, for once, all beasts of burden were as loved as dogs. They would be petted, and fed, and crowds would gather to see them. It had taken a while for Remi to understand the affliction that all barnyard beasts endured: the principle of purpose without relent. Dogden had a responsibility, he knew that much. The sows would give birth, the males, be they of sizable proficiency, would ensure the lineage would persist. Then, when he was old and tardy, he would be slain for the good of the community. The thought of dying terrified Remi, the poor boy, but to Dogden, it was life. He supposed that he wasn’t bothered by it. He was bothered by pain, of course, but what creature isn’t? It was his role, his job. He lived, he ate, he died, nothing more, nothing less. He was a pig. Would it have been pleasant to be a dog? Perhaps. To bound around the house carefree, to know the love of the master unambiguously, but dogs only have purpose sometimes. When the master is gone, most just lie about, waiting for them to return. Pigs, cows, sheep, the lot, by merely existing, were fulfilling their purpose. The sheep were growing wool, the cows were producing milk, that was their role. Why trifle with the ocean, when the pond was so much more well rounded? Dogden bound his wits to reclaim that purpose. This mild hindrance would not stop him. He would return and all would move back according to the plan. It was then, upon the lingering thought of Remi’s terror of death, and his own astute comprehension, that it occurred to him that he was in a terrible state of danger. He could die out here, now couldn’t he? Dogden was not afraid of the snakes, the crows, or the crayfish, of course not, but when he was at home, he could seek shelter from the elements. What if it snowed? Or rained? What then? What if he was set upon by coyotes or some other feral lupine brigadiering through the countryside, longing for a meal to stuff its chops? That terrified him. That would be painful. Death would not come fast and purposeful, but hectic and mad, a tumult of a pack of beasts, or the ambush of a torrent. Dogden had to make haste. He picked up the pace, trying to move faster, trying to outrun the terror of such an ordeal. Dogden soon found himself at a crossroads, met by a large metal sign and two paths leading in either direction. There was, accompanying them, a small house, lying dormant without its master. The day was still young, he didn’t need to rest yet. Besides, he doubted they would take kindly to a beast of his nature unannounced. Yet still, the crossroads persisted. He tried to recall to the best of his ability, the route that the truck would take. He had never paid much attention before, a pattern that now ruined his chances. Chance indeed was a funny thing. He sat there, deliberating the decision. Either route was just as likely as the other, but Dogden had never been given a decision before. All of them had been crafted for him and the other swine. He couldn’t even wait for the farmer to show. What if he messed it up? What if he chose wrong? What then? He could try again, yes, retrace his steps. And if another crossroads awaited him? That was a conundrum. He could recall a few paths, but past the third crossroads, he would undoubtedly be lost. He was a pig after all, his memory was not *that* extensive. The house. The house could lead to more houses (they traveled in packs you see, like pigs in their pigpen did). But farms need more space than that, right? He never saw that many houses besides the one back home. Therefore, the other route might be the better call. Yes! Yes! That made sense. To think of what the other pigs would think if they saw Dogden now, the shock and awe. He had made a decision, all by himself. He supposed he had to, staying put was a decision after all. He had already made plenty of decisions. He was proud of himself; a proper pig with a proper brain. He continued along the path he was on, and the difference could not be understated, for soon thereafter he found himself in another predicament. Bridges were by no means conducive for staying off the road, especially when a stream ran underneath them. Indeed, more indubitably, they were actually quite harmful. He couldn’t cross the bridge without risking the road’s wrath, and he couldn’t cross the stream without risking the water’s flow. It was a choice of punishment, instant death, or slow and painful. *Wonderful.* Perhaps, he thought, that matters of death need not be so prevailing in his mind. Dogden couldn’t escape it now, though. Instead, he operated on a more foundational decision-making: The stream was cold and unpleasant, and were he carried away by it, he would most surely be launched further off course from his destination. The bridge was altogether a better option. *Another* decision. He was getting good at this! Yet, still, it was a bad decision, wasn’t it? The bridge would have no alternative route if a truck came through, unless he leapt outwards and off into the stream, wherein he would suffer anyway. He would have to move with haste, he supposed. He supposed he would also have to press optimism into his mind, for without it, he would most surely be frozen here. Dogden bound his mind to his emotions, assuring himself, *‘I can make it before a truck comes’*. He stepped upwards. He stepped backwards. He checked for any oncoming trucks. Left. Right. His heart pounded in his chest. He remembered the noise the trucks made when they zoomed past. He remembered the deer, what it looked like when impacted. Dogden closed his eyes, before sprinting headlong across the bridge. It was only when the clatter of his feet upon the wood came to a close and the thick patter of his hooves on dirt came once more that he realized he was safe. It was not nearly as bad as he expected. A decision, partnered with a revelation of hope, and partnered still with a relieving resolution. Dogden had never taken so much time to use his brain before, and as he moved back to the side of the road, he realized what an opportunity this was. If he were to return home, he would hardly have such critical thinking. He and the other swine would spend their days blathering on about what the chickens were up to, how many piglets were expected, ranting about how good slop used to be before the farmer switched to a different brand. It was all nonsense, blathering, bickering, nonsense. But it was purposeful nonsense, he told himself. Here, he was forced to find purpose, like digging in mire for a truffle or some forlorn meal. Dogden pressed onwards. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t so bad after all. Then, as quick as he was proud, he was sundered by the sound of thunder. Rain torrented down upon his head, the ditches he had been using for ease of transportation now filled with voluminous water and caking soil and mud. Earthworms rose to meet him, but Dogden had no time for niceties to the common soil dwellers. It was cold, it was harsh. His body shivered against the storm, and he wondered if perhaps he should have taken the other path, the path with the house, the path with shelter. He thought perhaps he could go back the other way, try to make it to the structure without issue. Dogden turned backwards, trying to go back the way he came with the hopes of— **HONK HONK!** *Truck!* With a quick bound, Dogden leapt from the road into the ditch below, only for the water to catch him in its grasp without release. The truck hurtled past as Dogden was sucked into the current, his thoughts tossed asunder and abandoned. Dogden flailed and squealed, as pigs are wont to do, but it was no use, he found himself tossed and tumbled as he tried to dig his way out, his hooves finding no purchase on the mud as the wheat fields above looked down upon him like judgmental gods. The water dragged him along and towards the stream he had so carefully avoided, now deep and thickened by the rain, and Dogden locked his mouth closed as he was washed away and downstream to parts unknown. The stream led down, down, winding and twisting until at last he was met with a thick grate of iron, encased in rock that sought to hold it in place. He was pounded against it by the stream, and began to shuffle along it. He felt the iron cut into his side, his hairs pulled, his delicate pink exterior bruised by the impact as he forced himself to the nearest rock that could be conceived as a shore. Dogden skidded his hooves along it, trying to find purchase before stepping onto a loose rock in the ground below, that caused him to fall and strike his jaw, bruising him further. *Optimism. He needed optimism. He needed to escape. He needed to survive. No. He would survive. He would escape.* Dogden swam back to the lip of the rock and scraped his hooves up onto the top, slipping for a moment before pulling himself to safety. He could take the time to reminisce, to try to think about his actions, to deliberate such a forceful approach to decision making, but the storm nearly caused him to hurtle into the stream yet again. He had to get to safety. His eyes scanned the woods around him, finding a fallen log nearby, and a log would have to do. As he began to dig in the wet fallen leaves and thick soil and roots, he found himself using his teeth as well as his hooves, grasping, digging, clawing, trying anything to dig himself a hole, and the moment it was big enough for him, under the log he went, taking shelter in the poor man’s burrow. He was so tired. Every part of him hurt, and as he breathed in and out, shivering and cold, sleep found him there, whether he liked it or not. He woke up hardened, hungry. Dogden didn’t recall when last he had a meal. He stepped out, finding his hair had grown coarser overnight, undoubtedly a reaction to the cold. He had noticed that it was far warmer now, more accommodating. He wouldn’t object. The foul weather was too great to ignore. If he were to survive, he had to make accommodations. Rain trickled from the leaves above, birch bark peeling away to allow for the wayward bug to scuttle along, or the distant woodpecker to find purchase. Dogden stepped forward to the stream, its ire satiated, and set to drinking from its cool waters. It had neither the candor nor the consistency of slop, but it was hydration, it was water, and he was alive. Then, there was the matter of food. There were no basins nearby, no vegetables, nor leftovers. Dogden began to sniff about, searching for something equivalent. He would have to eat something, or else he couldn’t think at all, and when he found a small shrub birthing itself from the ground, he set upon it, devouring the plant instantly. This went on until he was satiated, until he was safe, until such a point that he found himself merrily snorting once more. It didn’t taste better than slop, but, unlike slop, it had a taste, which was an improvement. He chuckled and wondered if this was what the old slop that the older pigs always rambled about tasted like. He didn’t *really* care. It was only after he tried to eat a shrub with the sharp spines of a young pine that he recoiled. This was unpleasant to eat, it stung and scraped the interior of his mouth. He would not partake, he thought. Yet… his stomach insisted otherwise. He had to eat. When you’re hungry, when you’re beyond hungry, all the mind cares for is the food, no question of when, for it demanded *now* and no question of where, for it demanded *here*. Dogden pushed through the pain and ate the needle-like shrub, swallowing even as he felt it sting his mouth. Unpleasant, to say the least, but he needed to survive. Dogden moved onto the next bush, finding the strength to contemplate. Survival was a funny thing. To act on it was necessary, yet in doing so, it made decisions for you. You lived not because your mind demanded, but because your body and soul did. It was a strange triad of being. You had the other porkbound on the farm, who existed, but were not in any state of survival, nor decision making, but a state of oblivious oblivion, pigs. Then, you had man, the decision makers, those who had yet to be humbled by fear of death, the need for panic or survival, the humans who would never want for food but were burdened by other questions that gave no clear answer. At last, we had the boar: survival first and foremost, making decisions fast and forcefully, changing fast because without adaptation and learning, death was imminent. He hoped he didn’t turn into that. The coyotes and foxes were that, back at the farm, and they were never welcomed. They were only shot at and reviled. The deer on the road was like that, and Dogden knew its fate. Dogden didn’t want to be reviled. He didn’t want to be a nuisance or a bother. He was a pig. He had enough of being looked down at with disgust as is. The way that the humans looked at him as he ate the food *they* gave him, the way he was quartered off and filth ridden. Was he truly headed back to a home, or just a place without fear of death? The stream or the bridge, yet again. How would he decide between the two evils? Dogden forced himself not to think, because he was realizing that some thoughts *hurt.* He instead began to follow the stream back to where it came from, trying to retrace his steps. The three triads of being, the pig, the hog, and the man. Man was accepted back at the farm, revered even. If he could wander home a hero, there would be no such degrading. He would be held as lovingly as a dog. Then, Dogden would find reward for his trials out here in the wilderness. That was what he told himself as he pressed onwards, his focus ahead, his optimism pulsing against the soreness of his bruises. Dogden continued onwards for days, his hooves worn down by the walking. He had gotten better at building the temporary burrows for himself, rooting through the brush for plant life. His mouth and tongue had grown to ignore the sting of the needles of the young pine, even sharpened thorns meant nothing to him eventually. It was on one of these ventures, nearing the wheat fields yet again, that he was munching on his meal. He didn’t hear it coming, but he felt the pain shoot up his ankle when it struck. Dogden squealed and kicked, moving away with his other legs as the beast snatched onto him. A young canine, overambitious, was latched onto his ankle and as he struck it, flailing, he felt his hooves impact the hound’s skull and stun it, a sharp whine echoing out. Dogden fled as soon as he was able, running with his three still good legs, the fourth dragging behind him and slowing him down. Out of the wood and into the field they dashed, winding routes of grain, a maze with no clear direction. The dog followed in fast pursuit, twisting, turning. Dogden was slower, and he knew that. He would have to keep the beast confused, keep it wandering, and as the canine followed suit, Dogden kept in the brush, keeping away, trying to hide. His fur had darkened from his time out here. If he stayed motionless, if he was careful, he could ambush the canine. The dog continued running, only to come back, confused, looking either way for where Dogden went, and in that moment, Dogden returned the favor. Sharp teeth wedged themselves onto the dog’s leg, causing a yelp to shoot out from the pup’s mouth. Beast on beast. Violence met with violence. It was only as Dogden looked upon his target that he stopped and released it. “Remi?” Dogden asked, backing away. No. Not Remi. Just another gray dog. Another pup. The dog shuffled away from Dogden with its tail between its legs. Its fur was indented from where a collar had been, but her eyes longed in a sadness that Dogden recognized. Yet, even in his state, he could not imagine the pain in the dog’s eyes for himself, for it was the pain of betrayal, the pain of a love sundered. “No,” the dog said, whimpering, then snarled, her teeth bared, but her eyes betraying desperation, “I’m so hungry!” It snapped at Dogden, but Dogden was too fast for the pup. Dogden paused, then said, “I’m sorry. You remind me of a dog I once knew. He was grey, like you.” “... Was he loved?” the dog asked, a sniffle in her snarl. “Yes,” Dogden answered, hopeful in a peaceful resolution, but the dog whimpered and barked back. “Then I am not the dog you knew.” The beast lunged again, her gait unsteady, her mind a mess, her soul in tatters. Ribs lined the side of her body, bone and skin were all that she was. Dogden watched her try to hook onto his back and bite into his throat, but Dogden’s fur was too thick now. Dogden bit into the beast and tossed it off, before snorting down at the canine. “Stop! We are not *beasts*. We are decision makers. Like Man.” “Man has no love from me, because man has no love *for* me,” the dog said, too weak to continue fighting. Dogden was confused, but he saw the ribs along the beast’s stomach and proposed an alternative. “We are not beasts. We will settle this like Man. We will compromise. I will fetch food for you. I can burrow, and find where vermin lies. Are we clear?” *“I could eat you,”* the dog proposed again. “I am an adult, and you are a child. You would not succeed in laying me low without dire consequences. Understood?” The dog thought for a moment, sniveling in her hunger. “Find me a meal, hog, and I will tell you my tale,” she concluded, yielding to lick her wounds. Dogden did exactly that, digging his snout into one of the many mole dens and snake burrows and wrenching their residents free, offering them to the hound as compensation. He was acting very human, despite that mild hiccup. He would not lay low another wise animal, especially not one so young. He would shudder at the possibility of Remi facing such a dire consequence. The dog explained as it ate the moles and licked its wounds, as they both recovered there, in the thicket. “My everything… walked away from me. They drove out to where nothing was, took off my clothes that said I was loved, then set me there and drove away. I was too slow to catch up.” Dogden was flabbergasted, mustering out a confused shake of the head. “But you are a *dog*. Your *duty* is to be loved.” “It was. But, duty need not be returned. You…you who speak of the actions of Man as if they were graceful, and designed. But they are capable of *blindness* to their actions as well.” Dogden thought back to the other pigs, in their slop. Was it as much routine, as much emptiness, to be the ones to dispense the slop, then? No. He would offer some compensation, he would be better. He had to be better. “Let us be more Man than Man, then. Let us decide on a better path. Night comes fast. We will bundle for warmth, not as beasts of hungry appetite, but as companions of a better life,” Dogden proposed. Optimism surged once more within Dogden, and he stepped too far into its waiting arms. “Perhaps my farm would even accept another dog to love.” The dog thought for a while, her face locked in contemplation, her trust strained. Yet, what other choice could she make? The dog thought for a moment, then agreed with a solitary huff. Dogden bundled with the beast under some shelter, an empty shack, long abandoned in the woods. He thought about the dog’s words. Decisions could be made with malice, it seemed, or decisions could go without anything at all. What was the difference in the two if the result was the same? He was tired of these thoughts. Perhaps, it was better to be a pig, to not hear the laments of the world, to hide in a shell of obliviousness. But, he knew now he couldn’t go back. He knew it because he heard the dog try to sneak up to lay her teeth into him in the night. Dogden acted fast, and in a moment, she felt his teeth meet her throat in turn, a trickle of pained breathing, the pulse of a heartbeat dying, and the whine of a pup coming to a close. He stared there, looking in the moonlight as the pup died. Her eyes never closed, as if she were still looking out for her masters to come back for her. She curled against herself much as the deer had, just trying to survive. Even the dog, praised beyond him, could become a beast, too hungry to think. If she couldn’t resist the inevitable transformation into animal, what chance did he have? He didn’t blame her. He had felt the need to survive. The fear. The despair. The clouded judgment. Dogden mourned the pup as if he were mourning Remi. He forgave her. She was only hungry and betrayed and scared. Those who claimed to love her above all else betrayed her, what trust could she have for a lonely swine? He hoped Remi would never meet the same fate. In memory, he did not consume her, leaving her there in the shack, in the home she had never been given, so at the very least, one of her last memories would be that of a friend, and not a beast, reducing her fears to slop in a pigpen. Dogden’s ears had grown wiser, his hair thicker, his gait returned to him as the days went by. It wasn’t until he returned at last to the bridge that had sundered him so long ago that his spirits lifted. The dream was ahead. Home was not far. He continued on his path as he had planned, no rain this time to hinder him. The brush couldn’t slow him, he had learned their patterns. The crayfish did not confuse him, he had learned their ways. In stepping through the trenches, he felt taller, or at the very least, he felt less dragged into them over time. Dogden saw a familiar truck not far, parked along the road of a familiar farm, swine packed densely within a fenced away outcropping. Home had arrived. Dogden sprinted towards the other swine, merry in his gait, his ears flopping haphazardly as he surged to meet the other pigs, his tail wagging. He could return a hero, the prodigal son, at last at peace. His thoughts were only of home, when he heard a barking. Remi. The dog came rushing out to greet him, and in such joy and exuberance, it was only the chill up Dogden’s fur that told him something was wrong. Dogden came to a halt, then in a moment of awareness, turned down in anticipation before hurtling Remi over himself, causing the beast’s attempted pounce and tackle to send the dog scattered by the wayside into the dirt. Dogden shook himself off. Perhaps Remi was just excited. For a moment, it almost seemed like the dog intended to lay him low. Then, the moment persisted. Remi barked at Dogden, snarling as if an enemy. “LEAVE!” And Remi snarled once more, standing defensively in front of the other pigs. “... what?” Dogden stepped back and away from Remi, trying to muster the strength to respond, “Remi… I am Dogden. I fell off the truck. Surely you remember?” That gave Remi pause, but the dog remained steadfast, then insisted, “I do not know Dogden.” Dogden’s heart hurt, and he winced. “I… I am one of the pigs. I fell off the truck. We talked about chickens and purpose and life.” “NO! Dogden is a pig. Pigs don’t look like you. Don’t smell like you! You won’t trick me!” “I… I look like this because I had to survive. I smell like this because of the wood. This fur, it keeps me warm, my nose, it lets me burrow and find food, I am this size to withstand the harshest of days and beasts. But, rest assured, I am Dogden all the same.” *“Dogden doesn’t do that.”* Dogden stood there, contemplating the words. Yes, Dogden didn’t do that. Dogden ate slop and was dutiful in his purpose to die. Now, this thing that called itself him, it fought not to die. It decided to fight. It chose to mourn its attacker. It chose to navigate the woods. It understood roads and streams, and bridges and trucks. It dug in the dirt and bled and burrowed and grieved and broke. Dogden never did any of that. The thing that called itself Dogden, who came home, was nothing like what fell off the truck. “I am Dogden, Remi. No matter what you say. I didn’t choose to become this. I had to, to live, to come back here, to find home, to gain the strength for love.” “There is no home! You are not home! This is our home! And you will not find love here!” Remi continued to bark, his tail wagging in anticipation. He was readying for a fight. “I didn’t want to *be this*! I had to *become* this to *live*!” “But you *are* that!” “... I just wanted to be happy.” Dogden wept, looking at Remi, looking at the other swine in the pigpen. They skirted back and away from Dogden like he was a monster. He had no say in the matter. He had been doomed, and because he had been doomed, he became the intruder. He became the outsider, the unwanted, the ruined. Even if Dogden was still Dogden in name alone, there was no going back to home. “There is nothing here for you. Leave,” Remi warned one final time, and Dogden backed away and into the woods. He wandered, and wandered again, before finding himself once again on the road, staring at the deer carcass. He stared a little longer at it. A fluke. A bad day. But he was doomed now. Then he stared at it longer still. Maybe it never wanted to be this either, but it runs and it hides because it never knew what it was like to not have to run or hide. It wasn’t a nuisance, it was just alive. Like he was. Dogden wandered into the woods and began to burrow, trying to find some optimism, trying to pry himself into some semblance of home. He could make home here, he could build it himself, he could lie to himself and say, ‘I’ll be ok’ but he knew he couldn’t. He had to mourn Dogden, like he had mourned the young pup, like he was mourning the farm. He didn’t know what he was now. He was wild. Feral. For a while, he sustained himself, barely getting by, but then winters would come and winters would stay. He *had* to make it work. He had to make it work, every step, because eventually, he hoped he would find his way. He would find his way, all the way, to home. ### Wils Hosken is the author of the short stories *St. Bernard's Apostles* and *The Siren Song*. He earned a Master of Arts from Virginia Commonwealth University.