It's as though every link in the chain of being is content. The hat-tipping farmer/pig is happy to represent a barbecuing concern. The crawdad is happy to have been fished from the creek and delivered into a land of deathly salvation.
(Brief Interlude: This all takes place in Boiling Spring Lakes, North Carolina. Does that mean the pig is fixing to dunk the cheerful crawdad in the boiling spring? In other words, is he hauling him out, or getting ready to put him in? Regardless, in this context, Boiling Spring Lakes is the most cruelly apt name we've seen in a good long while. Remember the "Noose" River?)
Back to our analysis: Regardless of its crustacean-boiling properties, Crawdad Creek and Boiling Springs Lake are surely magical places. They transform hogs—hogs who identify with their human overlords—into willing participants in the dark rite known as barbecue.