Then, cautiously, he crouched—just slightly—just enough to get a better look at its face. The pig gave one more gruff snort, but didn’t move. Raymond exhaled slowly. He couldn’t lift it—not in this state. Not at eighty-two. His knees already ached from crouching, and his back had been giving him trouble for years.
The pig might not resist, but that wasn’t the problem. He turned and made his way back toward the house, snow stinging his cheeks and frustration building in his chest. Inside, Raymond closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breath unsteady, mind racing.