Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [76]
The catwalk is accessed through a door situated on the upper grandstand level. When you pass through the door and step out on the expanded steel grate you are essentially backstage, overlooking a vast holding area. Leaning over the pipe railing, we can see cows, calves, sheep, and goats. We look for pigs but don’t see them. Finally, when we have traversed nearly to the end of the elevated walkway, we spot a pair of gigantic mama pigs, and a single litter of teensy ginger piglets. Trouble is, I’m looking for feeder pigs. They run about forty pounds. These big pigs are too big, and the piglets are too small. And I have no idea what that size of pig is worth. Or how I bid for just one or two. I don’t want to wind up with the whole batch. I did get a bidding number before I came in, but I realize I don’t even know what to do if I win the bid, and Kenneth says it’s been a while, so he’s not sure either. Then I’m making my way back up the catwalk when I come nearly face-to-face with an old nemesis. The ex-boyfriend of a former flame. A man who makes me angry and queasy all at once. Worse, he is a crack cattle jockey with a sharp eye—he makes a living buying and selling livestock, and is utterly at home in the sale barn. The only thing worse than meeting a man you despise is meeting him in his triumphal arena with your daughter at your side. I cannot tell a lie, I am suddenly happy no feeder pigs are available. I have every excuse to scuttle on out the door and back into the light. I thank Kenneth for his time, bid him good-bye, and walk back to the truck with Amy. On a farm not far from here, I have seen a sign: “Pigs for Sale.”
I start the truck and we head that way.
The “Pigs for Sale” sign is still up, but there is no one home. I call the number on the sign. A man answers. No more feeder pigs, he says. Sold out. But try the guy over there on Randall Road. We drive on over. The farm is well kept and tidy. A man is mowing the lawn. “Guy up the road said you had some feeder pigs,” I say after he shuts the mower down. “I do,” he says. “I was just gonna send ’em to the sale barn tomorrow.”
We walk into the barn through a passageway beside the milk house. There is a doghouse at the entrance, with a big old coonhound sitting at the door. He is secured with a heavy chain, but seems friendly enough, so Amy and I stop to pet him. He wags his tail and licks my hand. The barn is as neat inside as outside. The walk is limed, the farrowing stalls are clean, and the watering system is neatly plumbed. A good setup. Amy spots a sow with a litter of teeny piglets and naturally shoots right over there. “Oh, they’re so cuuute!” she says. The feeders are in a pen on the other side of the barn, maybe six or eight of them, vigorous and alert. “Whaddya wantin’ for ’em?” I ask, trying to sound all farmerish and hip. Inside, I am ridiculously nervous. Cripes, I’ve never bought livestock before. I wouldn’t know a good pig from a bad pig if you hit the highlights with a laser pointer.
“I’m thinking forty-five bucks apiece,” he says. Nervous as I am, I have been checking the market reports lately and know he’s right in line. And if the state of the operation is any indication, these are fine pigs.
“I’ll take two,” I say.
I back the truck around to the passageway, which reminds me of the tunnel leading to a football stadium. The farmer has stepped into the pen and begun cornering pigs with a wooden door, holding it in front of him as he advances until he has one trapped in the triangle. Good in theory, but they are zippy little critters, and it takes some grabbing and lunging before we get the first one.
We each grab a hind leg, carrying the pig down the walk and out the passageway head-down. The moment a pig’s hooves leave the ground it screams as if it is being scalded and will not