If you turn your virtual New York Times to the “other sports” section, you’ll stumble upon an article written about one of the most interesting “other sports” out there: hunting down feral pigs with angry dogs (registration required), tying the pigs down, and butchering them.

Lest this sound like an overly judgmental way to describe the process, here’s a brief excerpt from the story:

The hounds set upon the hog, tearing a small chunk of flesh from her hindquarters and snapping at her ears. Mr. Kennedy pulled them away by the collars, fell upon the sow and held her by the neck. Mr. Watson dropped to his knees, wrapped her hooves with a length of mule tape and then fell back, breathing heavily.

Holy crap. To be fair: Pigs are delicious, and feral pigs cause a lot of trouble—the trouble in this particular case being tearing up golf courses and inconveniencing the wealthy. And you probably get more joy out of life living for a few years as a feral pig, ripping up some ball washers and carefully manicured greens and then being hunted down by dogs, than being Pig Product number 151516 somewhere in the warrens of Hormel.

This is an elegantly and economically written piece, nonjudgmental and poetically framed; regardless of the emotional baggage you bring with you as you read it, you’ll finish the thing.

And once you have your feral hog in hand, you’ll want to make your own pancetta, of course.

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