The definition of insanity is to repeatedly try something with the same result, expecting a different outcome each time…or something along those lines. Whistle Pig did not consider himself insane. But then, there’s the old Catch-22: those who are aware they are crazy are not crazy in the least. No matter. The point, oh refined and prestigious friends, is that Whistle Pig refused to believe in ever and unchanging laws—nothing was set in stone, nothing dictated by the universe; and those who live their lives expecting the expected just to bypass the sometimes cumbersome life of curiosity are bound to dismiss the following as fallacy.
But if the infinite beyond is as never-ending as the scientists claim, mustn’t there be one single insignificant particle somewhere that might look gravity in the eyes, and then, defiantly, fall UP? Whistle Pig was no such particle. Even he had not been chosen to be that particular exception.
But one day, when it was especially foggy and there was a chill in the air, our dear old Pig wrapped his scarf around his neck and clickety-clicked up flight after flight of shiny marble to emerge on top of the Empire State Building. And then, stepping over the wrought-iron barrier with only two pigeons to witness, he spread his tiny arms and let the New York City sidewalks decide his fate. While he did not oppose Sir Isaac Newton and shoot instead to the stars, gravity did loose its hold for the adventurer, and he stepped casually on air— down, down, down— to a street of bored and weary commuters who did not look up when the Pig descended from the sky.
And if, by your curmudgeonly cynicism, you refuse to believe it, you may also refuse the next glass of Whistle Pig that comes your way: you do not have the spirit to partake.
