George.

When I was a kid, things were a lot more rural in my hometown. There were fields of corn and soy beans everywhere.
My dad always planted a huge garden - in which I hated working. Every year he would say that he was thinking of down-sizing this year, but he would always end up planting every available space he could get. (Now-a-days, when I see other people's tiny little garden spots, I feel kind of like Crocodile Dundee: "That's not a garden...") Usually, we ended up with so much stuff we had to give it away. This used to particularly annoy me.
We also always had lots of animals around. Some pets, some livestock. We would have a couple of dogs and about a dozen cats. We had a black and white cat, named "Mama Cat," who had a slumped back and lived to be 17 years old. She produced 2 litters a year. I can still remember her kitten call: "Mert-meow. Mert-meow."
I had turtles, a bunch of rabbits, gold fish, and some pet mice.
And we had chickens, hogs and often, a cow.
It was hard not to get attached to the livestock, when you fed and took care of them every day. Sometimes it was very difficult for me when my dad slaughtered one of them.
Once, dad bought a pig from Mr. Johnny, who lived down the road. Mr. Johnny always had a pack of hound dogs around his house. I remember my mom saying that she didn't know how he could even stand looking at a dog, as he once had a baby that was mauled and killed by dogs. Well, this pig my dad bought was raised with hound dog puppies and thought he was one of them. I remember seeing him running through Mr. Johnny's yard, playing with the puppies. Mr. Johnny had named him George.
It's not a good idea to name an animal that will, eventually, end up on your table.
Even as he grew bigger and bigger, George would still follow me around like a puppy. He was so affectionate. I thought he was the greatest pig ever.
I'm so sorry, George.