The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas by Kinky Friedman Page A

did something he’d never done in his life. He began to cry.
    “I don’t want to lose you, dear Valerie,” he sobbed. “You’re my only friend.”
    “No friend is worth your tears,” she said, “except the one who never makes you cry.”
    No one knows how long they remained there, how long the fire lasted. It could have been a day or a lifetime. The temperature dropped steadily. The snow and ice kept falling from a sky they could no longer see. The boy at last fell asleep and Valerie curled up next to him to try to keep him warm. But she could not keep him warm enough.

    They say that pigs are smarter than dogs and just as loyal, though, of course, they have a lot less reason to be. This having been said, a pig can survive in the cold and wild for far longer than a small boy. That is, if the pig wants to. In this case, the pig chose to remain next to the boy’s still warm body, and if necessary, die by his side. Which is exactly what she did.
    Thus it was that snowflakes soon covered Valerie’s delicate eyelashes. Thus it was that on the day Jesus was born, Benjamin died.

Chapter Twenty-Two
The Midnight Mass
    F EINBERG WAS NERVOUS. The midnight mass was winding to a close in the great hall of Eddystone Castle and Feinberg was pacing briskly back and forth behind the biggest crowd he’d ever seen in his life. It seemed the whole kingdom had turned out to watch the velvet draperies drop from Benjamin’s painting, which was now situated high on the castle wall behind the priest. Rumors had coursed through the populace, apparently, that this nativity scene was the work of a child painting a child. Not only that, but this particular child was a ten-year-old idiot savant from the north country.
    Feinberg remembered with a shudder the childlike, primitive, grotesque monstrosity the kid had painted for him when the boy had spent the night at Eddystone Castle. Another performance like that, thought Feinberg, and we’ll all be out of business. In keeping with the traditions of the midnight mass, no human eye had seen the painting except the artist himself. Not the king. Not Feinberg. No one could say for sure what was behind that velvet curtain. It was one tradition, thought Feinberg, that he could do without.
    Feinberg had a plan, of course. He always had a plan. If things went terribly wrong and the crowd hated the painting, he would leap to prominence in the room, jump in front of the parade, and take a leadership position in reviling the work. There was at least a fair chance, in that event, that King Jonjo might not remember Feinberg’s instrumental role in granting the royal commission to the kid in the first place.
    Suddenly, the church bells were ringing and the Christmas Eve midnight mass was over and, for the first time in his life, Feinberg found himself praying. Dear God, he prayed, let the king love the painting! Let the people love the painting! Let the world not blame Feinberg!
    The prayer appeared to be just in time, for King Jonjo was now making his way from his royal throne to the pulpit. The king was decked out in a very royal purple robe, his crown flashing in the torchlight, and his scepter seemingly covered with, well, fireflies. The king’s taking the proscenium made a very pretty picture, indeed. Feinberg hoped with all his heart that there was also a very pretty picture lurking inside the velvet drapery on the wall behind the king.
    And then the king waved his scepter, and the trumpets blew, and two knights stepped to either side of the painting and, with great ceremonial flourish, removed the curtain. The crowd stared in stunned silence. For the painting included no Joseph, no Mary, no shepherds, and no wise men. It was comprised entirely of a distant circle of animals and two beautifully drawn centerpieces that dominated the work. One of these was the Baby Jesus on a bale of hay. The other centerpiece, with its hooves up on the hay and its head pressed perilously close to the future Savior of