“During our leisurely stroll, we came across a pigpen,” remembers Inger. “No more finely kept grass; it ended where the enclosure began. Beyond the fence, the inhabitants had trampled the turf into deep, moist mud. I commented on the squelchy state of their pen. To my surprise—and slight dismay—my father reached over the fence and started to scratch one of the pigs behind its ears…We watched. The pig appeared to like it.”