I dreamed last night–the image has been with me all day–that I baked a live pig. Actually a Piglet because it fit nicely in my little 2 gallon dutch oven. It was contained similarly to a lobster (with pretty colored gum bands) when I purchased it from the store.
The piglet baked for hours, plain, smelling fabulous, but emerged from the oven still alive. It wasn’t squealing (I read someplace that you don’t hear in dreams. I don’t think that’s true because I heard all kinds of horrifying things in one of my pre-Pearl’s-birth nightmares), but it was wincing as we cut into it, its flesh did not bleed but did not juice; and there was a pulse. The most distressing things were the Piglet’s eyes: expressive and alert and begging, “No! Don’t cut me! Don’t eat me!”
Is this some kind of plea from my psyche to become a vegetarian?
Since the recurring nightmare of my childhood that ended in my being chased through a giant labryinthine rubber mask shop by a rotten man, there hasn’t been such a vivid and plaguing image from my dreams.