The other day I saw a grey pony in a field. I was in the passenger seat of a moving car (we’d just escaped from Wuthering Heights) and could see that it was having a lovely chat with another, smaller animal, but couldn’t make out what it was. The thing was black and came up to the pony’s knees and I was desperate to find out what it was because who doesn’t love them some animal cross-species lurve? No one, that’s who. The two were nose-to-nose and deep in conversation but as we got closer I still couldn’t make out what the other animal was. A goat, I thought? No, too chunky. A dog? Didn’t seem likely. Pygmy Okapi? Now you’re just being silly. Then as we turned the corner I was close enough to see it was a pig. A gorgeous round, black pig, rubbing its flat snout against the tender white nose of the pony, wobbling and flop-eared and wiggling its corkscrew tail. The two of them were just hangin’, chatting and cuddling and having the best time there in that muddy field. It was just about the sweetest thing I ever saw.

I think if I was a pony I would like nothing more than to have a pig as a friend. The pig would be stinky, possibly, but full of great stories and cheek and a great dancer (it’s the ballerina feet) and never, not once, would I ever mention how much I love the smell of frying bacon.