A low rumble in the distance
The ground trembles and turns
My knees betray me
The earth quakes
The rumble grows louder
A dust cloud draws near
A cacophony of hooves and heavy snorts
I blink, and they’re upon me
A stampede of hogs
Trampling me
Stamping me down
I contort
I cry out
I bleed
Mangled, through swollen eyes
I watch the mob reach the horizon
I’m left broken
Tattered, bruised
And coated in slime

I snap back to consciousness, and I’m sitting up in my bed.
That’s the third time tonight, I think to myself.
It’s dark, so I listen.  A powerful snore echoes beside me.
My drooling, snot-faced daughter has snuck into my room again.
I wipe her excretions from my shoulder and scoop her up.

Navigating the dark, circumventing the tissue-laden floor,
Taking extra care not to startle the guinea pig this time,
I clean and cover her up, then gently kiss her forehead.
I linger and brush her hair aside. Snorting loudly, she turns.  
With ballerina grace, I tiptoe over Barbie Dolls.

In the kitchen, the dishes overflow from the day before.
Cleaning till I’m exhausted, I ascend the stairs to my room.
A familiar rumble fills the hallway. The hooves crushing my ribs.
On my side of the bed, my daughter in a drool-filled, snotty puddle.
These dishes are getting done tonight, I think as I scoop her back up.