Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [77]
I utter an oath. One of the big ones.
Then I reach back and punch the dog in the nose. Hard. I have to use my left fist because I am fighting to hold the pig hock in my right. I smack the dog again. And then again, even harder. My fist is pistoning. Finally he turns me loose. I go right back to wrassling the pig. The second we get her inside the panel she goes quiet, snuffling at the bed liner like she’s been there all afternoon. For all their screeching, pigs have a remarkable off switch.
My butt feels like it got sent to the laundry and run through a pressing mangle. It hurts so bad I can’t walk right. The farmer is looking at me quizzically. “Dog bit me,” I say.
“Whaaat?” In all the pig-scuffle, he didn’t notice. “He’s never done that before!” says the farmer, and based on his look of genuine dismay, I believe him. I figure it was us hauling that screaming pig past his nose that got the dog worked up. Probably triggered some primal killing neuron. Confronted with a stranger pilfering a protesting pig, the dog just snapped and went after the most prominent target.
Obviously embarrassed, the farmer helps me load the other pig. We skirt the dog widely. My butt has developed a bone-deep ache, and I hitch my giddyup to avoid contracting the glute. I nonetheless manage to keep up the small talk as we go around to the front of the truck and complete the transaction. Using the hood as a desk, I write out the check. I ask the farmer if I need to worm the pigs. He says he would. I ask him what kind of feed he’s using. He tells me and fetches half a bag to get me started. I write the check out for an extra five bucks, and we’re on our way.
The pigs ride home easy. The cattle panel works perfectly. I look back several times expecting they will be alarmed or skittering around, but they are riding happily, their snoots angled up and out to take in the view, their ears flapping in the wind.
When I get home, the butt pain is unmitigated. By craning my neck I can see tooth holes in the canvas, but no blood, so I go about unloading the pigs. I have been told they are remarkably adaptable animals, and they are proving it. Backing the truck up to the pen, I go after some wire and fencing pliers, and by the time I return they’re snoozing like they’ve never had such soothing accommodations. “Can I mark them?” asks Amy. At first I don’t see what she’s getting at—then I recalled her helping Grandpa Bob mark the lambs. “Sure,” I say, and she runs off for her carton of sidewalk chalk. She is back quickly, scruffing the chalk across their backs so now they each have pink and green stripes. I have to grab them by the back legs to lower them from the truck and they screech again, but go quiet as soon as they make contact with the turf. Scuttling off, they stand motionless in the shoulder-high burdock, grunting quizzically, first one and then the other, back and forth, as if they are having a conversation. Amy points to the one farthest away, a barrow. “That one’s Wilbur!” Then she points to the gilt. “And that one’s Cocklebur!”
Old-timers will tell you it’s a bad idea to name your butcher animals. I lower myself gingerly down to one knee—my hinder still feels like I sat on a sea urchin—and make sure we have eye contact.
“You know why we have these pigs, right?”
“Yes?” There is a little question in her voice.
“In October we will butcher them. We’ll cut them up