Bug On the Lam

I specifically remember the lady at the Animal Rescue place CLEARLY stating that Bug had been raised with goats and poultry and other livestock and that she KNEW boundaries. I wish I had asked her if Bug's boundary knowledge was acquired from a Missouri road map?

Bug’s first evening unchained did not go too well. She immediately dismissed as inadequate this mere 36 acre lot, heard the call of far places and departed as swiftly as four long white legs can carry one dog, becoming little more than a pale blur against the blacktop and heading due north. My hopes of the great fox eliminator and protector of all things feathered crumbled to dust at my feet. Well, they would have been dust if the grass hadn’t still been wet.

Never having a really strong grasp on my temper at the best of times, my initial reaction of disappointment was immediately replaced with a sincere hope that a big truck (it would have to be a big one) would wipe her out and nobody would ever know who she belonged to, her being new to the neighborhood.

Fortunately for Bug AND me, my neighbors always seem to be a little confused about the exact date of the Fourth of July and want to do fireworks for as long as possible and Bug was just barely out of sight when their celebratory barrage against anyone daring to doubt their patriotism commenced. I never saw a dog backtrack so fast. She was fireballing back down the blacktop so fast she almost missed the place completely and if I hadn’t hollered at her she would probably have wound up in Cameron. Well, I chained her again.

This morning turned cool and lovely with a nice, grumbly little thunder shower working its way across DeKalb County and I unchained her hoping to coax her into following me through chores. Remember the orientation thing all week long? With me bottle feeding bucket calves, baby goat, watering doelings, chicks, hens etc with a 75 pound dog attached at the wrist? Well evidently Bug didn’t. This time she lit out down the gravel to the east, loping low and fast and within seconds nothing was visible but the sway of a white tail plume and then that was gone.

“Damn”..this time, before I could exercise any reasonable restraint, my temper was totally gone and in my degeneracy, I envisioned a bear chewing her up and spitting her out! I had just read that they are CONSCIENTIOUSLY propagating the Black Bear down in South Missouri. I relished the thought! Nothing to be left but a pink collar with a few white hairs clinging to it and the tiny tag saying she was most likely not rabid tinkling against the leash loop!

Before any doubts had time to rise regarding the existence of a bear on demand on my part a low rumbling, followed by a louder crash of thunder, was THEN followed by a fast traveling streak of white heading back in my direction. Bug outdid herself this time. Barely sparing a glance for me, the crazy lady standing in the rain fantasizing about Bear-On-Dog scenarios, she raced for the barn, wheeling at the last second and backing in so nothing could be seen in the dimness of the barn door except a white muzzle and two black ears.

As I debated whether to chain her again, patting my self on the back for the fact that she DID know where home was,..(remember the orientation thing?) the rain shifted to a light drizzle and the grumbly thunder seemed to have crossed over into Daviess County. More power to ‘em.

Bug also noticed the altered circumstances and stalked out of the barn like she personally had driven the thunder away. Meeting no audible threat she lunged into gear and was off down the gravel again in a nano-second only to be met by a repeat of the rumble and thunder, followed by an even faster retreat to the barn.

I figured this was enough dog training for one day and, not having enough faith in either my neighbors’ patriotism or the Good Lord’s willingness to intercede in my dog’s training by stepping in with loud noises as needed, I lunged for the chain and Bug at the same time..no small task.. and by some miracle had them connected once again. I’ll try again tonight.

P.S. I haven't seen a fox since Bug and her big mouth and mobile nature arrived.

Big Bug

BIG BUG

'Entre the new farm employee!

Designated Fox Destroyer..Skunk Chaser..'coon Fighter and Monitor of All Points of Defense.

Her name is Bug. Originally June Bug, according to the Rescue Haven..but I was never fond of the name June so she is just "Bug". Bug is somewhat euphonic with Benny (The Terrible Terrier) and also I think I can remember it.

She had two orientation sessions this a.m. following the drill through chicken chores, calf bottles and goat feeding with a little boundry work thrown in. She is learning to "Sit down" and not kill us inadvertantly by jumping on us (she probably weighs 75 pounds) and walking on a leash without dragging me all over. She was chained at each chore point so I have both hands free for the job and she was pretty good about the whole process and not malignantly interested in poultry or very small goats.

Her first interview with Benny last night did not go well but better luck this morning. Benny's circle of admirers seems to be a limited one. Sarah says he 's down to one. I guess that one is me. I really like the little dude.

I want all to understand that I do not like dogs generally and have known many that I thought should never have made the cut that propelled them into my world. But some are really remarkable people who just happen to be dressed in fur with sappy tongues that hang out on hot days. I hope Big Bug is one of those.

For the time being she looks good lying under the pear tree and if I was a fox I would not want to rile her!

The Art of Pig Watching

Perhaps you spurn the art of pig-watching and consider it a waste of time. Perhaps you have never had the opportunity to watch too many pigs and are ignorant on the subject. And perhaps you have just never been so lucky.

But those of us lucky enough to have had the opportunity and taken the time to spend an hour or two on a good day pig-watching are permanently blessed with a deep knowledge of what life appreciation is all about. If you have never watched a 300 pound sow in a 6-inch deep mud puddle you have no yardstick to determine what real contentment looks like.

It doesn’t take much to maintain a pig’s ordinary, run of the mill daily happiness factor. Typically jolly fellows and girls, they live and let live and require little emotional support. I have never seen a depressed pig.

But it takes a good puddle to send a pig into the kind of ecstasy that stays with you.

My first pig venture with Gretchen and Gertrude and the inimitable Festus (described in an earlier Blog) were eventually followed by a couple I referred to as Ma and Pa Kettle.

Beautiful black Hamps with a white band completely around their middles, their naming was somewhat of a misnomer in that unlike the original Hollywood Kettles whose cleanliness and personal habits supposedly left a lot to be desired, MY Kettles were very tidy people.

Their bathroom habits were discreet and their bedding area was moved, at intervals chosen by them, to different pasture spots almost every night resulting in a clean bed.

However, due to the odiferousness of the pig reputation in general I chose a spot for the pig lot down in the northeast corner of the main pasture. (closer to my neighbor’s place than mine.) This made pig-watching a little inconvenient but we’re kind of short on entertainment here in North Missouri so I didn’t mind making the trip down the gravel to the pig pasture.

Whenever company came the entertainment agenda always included a jaunt “down to see the pigs” and we would lean on the fence posts and discuss stuff and watch the Kettles in their pursuit of the maximum pleasure derivable from three acres of grass and the mud from a small spring that ran along the side of their yard.

Sometimes in the summer when the spring dried up, being a true spring and only wet when it was actually spring, I would try to fill the trough with water at least once a day just for the show. It took the Kettles about 45 seconds to upend the trough , scoot it out of the way and plop into their very own self-made mud hole. Little eyes blinking in rapture, snouts whiff-whiffing and smurfing in the muddy ripples, squirming contendedly on one side, only getting up to drop with a splat onto the other side like a Brooklynite in Miami taking the sun…their pleasure was downright contagious and kind of inspiring.

In no time, because of the shallowness of the mud, they would begin to look like Oreos in reverse..soft gooey on the two outsides with a strip of dry and bristly in between. Often they would drift off to sleep on the wet bed of their cool and pleasant spa and not wake until the sun had dried the mud on their sides and turned them into what would then look like Navajo bake ovens.

But generally I did my pig watching at days end, when after work I would stop at the barn, fill the bucket with feed and head on down to the pig lot and spend a relaxing half hour watching the Kettles enjoy life.

Pigs are not all that dumb, (although not as smart as some people would have you believe) and the Kettles soon came to recognize the sound of my truck turning the corner a quarter of a mile up the gravel as I turned off the blacktop. Heck, maybe they heard the truck before that. Who knows how far pigs can hear when they are thinking about food?

I might never have known about there ability to anticipate my arrival at all but one night they, being just too clever by half, had managed to get under the fence and decided to come to meet me. The sight of the Kettles trotting up the road, in happy silhouette just there where the gravel of the road to the east met sky, was a sight to see. They were so pleased with themselves it was impossible not to be happy with them.

Sorry to say, this was the end of pig farming for me. That one taste of freedom was too much for the Kettles and their desire to see the world was beyond my pig fencing skills. But I do miss the pig watching at the end of the day.

Maggie, an Honorable Partner

As one of a large litter of pups left in a dog kennel to starve following the removal of their mother, Maggie, the only survivor, managed to squirm under the chain link fence and get rescued by a horrified neighbor. The lady happened to have a friend willing to care for her and when she was about six months old, a teenager in dog years, I answered the ad that read: “Blue Heeler needs a home” and Maggie came to the farm.

It didn’t take long for Maggie to become an integral part of the farm and within a year she was what you might call a full partner. My only requirements of her in the beginning were that she not leave the place and not to kill poultry.

Her only requirements of me were that she be allowed to stay as near me as possible as much as possible and that I would listen to “dog reason” occasionally.

She learned immediately that her boundary was the fence line and the open gate at the gravel road but the chicken killing thing was a hard lesson to learn and cost a lot of poor hens their lives that first year.

I learned immediately that she was a companion worth having and that I could depend on her. I also learned to listen to dog reason.

She was an extremely happy dog in those busy years and confident in her own importance and ability to hold up her end. Her favorite entertainment was walking the pasture, for whatever purpose, 15 feet ahead of me, tail brush wagging, pretending that she was the leader and I was the follower. Maybe she was. I never could figure out how she knew where we were going. If the plan was to check the gully off to the east for a missing heifer she struck off in that direction. If the idea was to run the south fence line checking for downed wire she headed straight for it.

I learned very soon that she had a few strong hatreds. She passionately hated pigs and her aversion to large sticks in my presence turned her into a totally different dog that you really would not like to meet. And she had a primeval hatred of guns.

We were both young then, in those years when my own strength and determination would be tested to the max, and the work was hard. In the beginning there were disagreements, as in any partnership, mostly regarding what Maggie thought was in my best interest.

She was determined to keep a safe zone between me and anything larger than me and at first this made caring for the stock a little difficult. However, as my hard-earned herd of sale barn heifers grew and the danger of being smashed or trampled as the individuals in the herd fought for the first bite increased, I learned to appreciate Maggie’s wisdom and depend on her protection. She never failed me.

She hated to see me climb and this battle, which I finally won because of the necessity of the thing, caused me a few bumps and scrapes. The cattle were separated from the hay storage side of the barn by an ancient stanchion topped by woven wire fencing and I had to stand on the stanchion and shove the hay bales over the wire fencing. To Maggie this was double jeopardy. I was not only three feet off the ground but at some risk of falling into the pen with the cows.

Her whimpering pleas ignored, she would brace her feet in the dirt of the barn floor, grab the cuff of my cover-alls and hang on with all her might while I did the haying as best I could with a 40-pound dog attached to my leg. More than once I lost patience and kicked out at her, cussing a blue streak, winding up flat on my back on the floor. This had to stop so I did win this one.

Maggie was a perfect mimic. She was like a canine mocking bird. I guess you would call her a mocking dog. More than once I jumped from my bed thinking I had coyotes right under my bedroom window only to see Maggie sitting there answering the yip yips of some far off coyote pack just for the fun of it.

Or I would hear the tinny bark of a very small dog by the barn and go out to see her sitting in the drive answering the neighbor’s terrier or a deep full bark of what I was sure had to be a St. Bernard in the neighborhood and it would just be Maggie woof woofing away.

I don’t know how she did it and am not sure why she did it but I think she just thought it was fun.

She did, however take her responsibilities very seriously. In fact she was a dedicated worrier. Beneath my bedroom window, guarding through the night, she could not keep her worries to herself and would often, when the coyotes were running or stray people were out and about, trouble my sleep with her pitiful grumbling, mumbling whimpers and this would go on and on only to be silenced by my loud shouts to “shut up that damn whining” and my banging on the outside wall by the window beneath which she slept.

Our only disagreement that seriously threatened our arrangement and Maggie's place at the farm involved a gun. Like I said she hated guns. The merest glimpse of a gun, or any facsimile of one, resulted in the morphing of a very gay, amenable, hard working companion into a rigidly intense, deadly serious canine stranger.

I kept a gun. It was a rifle and kept for the purpose of some emergency that might arise for a woman living alone in a rather isolated area. Of course and fortunately, no such emergency ever did arise and hasn't to this day.

The gun's actual use, with a few rare exceptions, had been confined to the two occasions when I, fortified with three or four ounces of Vodka mixed with a tablespoon of orange juice, performed necessary mercy killings. It had also been waved wildly at stray dogs and one errant fox seen carrying off a fat Peking duck five mornings in a row.

But a neighbor's dog, having made friends with Maggie, who was a total push over in that regard, had persistently ravaged and killed throughout the poultry population and was arrogant enough to come into the yard in broad daylight while I was standing there to repeat his acts of destruction right in front of me.

I looked at the bodies strewn across the yard and I had had enough. I got the rifle and standing in the driveway with the intention of either scaring the be jesus out of him or killing him dead which ever my aim served, was banging away while Maggie's wildly piteous pleadings and whimperings fell on deaf ears. As a last resort, from her way of thinking, she stood on her hind legs and clamped down on my left hand that supported the gun while my right worked away at the trigger.

I was stunned. First by the pain of it and then by the fact that she would actually do this to me. She did not bite, or tear..just clamped down hard and hung on, her whimperings and whining, louder and louder, ascending to a frantic pitch going up and down the scale while her grip stayed firm. I dropped the gun. She dropped to the ground and rolled belly up in one motion, crying so loud I could hardly hear anything else. Her despair was total. It was obvious that every instinct bred into her told her that this was a death warrant.

My hand hurt where one of her long canine teeth had met the lower teeth in the web of my thumb and forefinger. I stared at the fat puncture wound seeping blood. But I had had enough of killing.

"That's alright Maggie." I told her. "You were right, girl," I said, "We'll never use the gun again, but don't ever do that again either." and because she knew I had forgiven this unforgivable act, (which after all is what forgiveness is all about), and after at least thirty seconds of subdued body language..the head hanging the drooped tail..and so on, she became her old self again and was happy to go on with chores.

I never used the gun again and was eventually happy to find a home for it with one of the boys..I can't remember which one. As for Maggie, she kept her end of the bargain and never in eighteen years ever met a human being with anything other than friendliness and love.

Maggie was a fine, fine dog and an honorable partner.

Maggie's Gone

Well, Maggie’s gone. She was eighteen years old and a fine, fine dog. If ever a dog deserved rest it was Maggie. But humans are a complex sort and being no exception I find myself angered by her leaving. Not at her..just mad in general. Eighteen years is a long time to have someone sitting by your porch door or under your bedroom window. Maggie always had my back.

Last Wednesday at the morning feeding time she was very bad, wobbly and wouldn’t leave her spot beneath the shade of the elm tree ten feet from the back door. I spoke to her and took her water and a handful of food which she ignored. She was impatient with my hand upon her head and rose stiffly to turn her back to me. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that her mind was now on other things.

Sometime during the day she left the elm tree and I thought she probably went to the cellar, which is left open for her and Pansy the Pyr in this heat but when she was not at the back door Thursday morning of course I knew why. I checked the cellar, both sheds and the barn without finding her. I checked the edge of the pasture for any sign of a fresh dog path in the tall grass. I found it but did not follow. I couldn’t believe she chose to do this thing alone.

In my humanness I wanted it different for her. I wanted to do better by her. But she wanted the privacy of the tall grass whispering and the cool brown earth and sky to look at and I didn’t follow.

To me dogs are of two kinds. There are the face watchers and the hand watchers. Hand watchers are the terriers and hunters motivated by games, food and directions for the hunt. Face watchers are the herders, the nurturers, the lovers of humans in all their folly.

Hand watchers are tons of fun and full of energy and are often extremely loyal and protective.

But I believe it’s the face watchers that can see into the human heart….every brave or cowardly smile, every tear that never falls… is reflected in the eyes of a face watcher.

Maggie was a face watcher.

In Memory of a Goat Named Zeptha

These hot, hot July days always remind me of Zeptha, an honorable goat and a fine lady. She died on such a day..a hot golden day..and a sad one.

Farming is always hard work and not always fun and the death of Zeptha was a low, low point in farm history. The piece below is a repeat in memory of a great goat lady.

In Memory of a Goat Named Zeptha

In full sunlight, full of new babies and a loving steady heart she strangled her last breath against the toe of my boot.

With absolute and total disbelief I watched Dr. Rainey pocket his stethoscope and disappear up the path toward his truck.

I thought she would live for ever and of course she couldn't.

It took forty-five minutes. He had said it was a shame. He had said she evidently had some kind of allergic reaction to a new grass that closed her throat. He had said, meaning to be kind, that he knew she had a "cared for life" by the way she leaned into me even at the last and "turned her head toward me" and was so "obviously glad I was there for her". He meant to be kind but he might as well have stabbed me with a hundred knives.

She depended on me and I let her die.

I walked the field for awhile sobbing like something out of Shakespeare until, stricken with a panicky thought that the problem might have been not enough available water buckets, I spent the next half hour refilling all the buckets I could find and spacing them around for everyone but Zeptha..

I bought Zeptha at the sale barn five years ago. She was old then according to her teeth, but was a loving, gentle old thing and had the most beautiful doe kids. She never picked on the weaker and newer, as many others did. She was patient and steady. She was as good a goat as she knew how to be. And she liked me.

Well maybe not JUST me… she liked.period. She liked her feed and hay and visitors, (even at very private kidding moments) and hard toast and soda crackers. She liked sunny mornings and misty evenings and gentle twilights.

She did absolutely despise and abhor rain, snow, sleet and mud. She was very beautiful.

Goats are extremely familial and I had always suspected that Rachel and Zeptha were related. Rachel, the pampered darling of a two-goat family and Zeptha, my sale-barn reject, were close companions here at High Faith Farm. Their markings and breed traits were so similar. But even more telling, Zeptha and Rachel always bedded together and Rachel's children, and Zeptha's, also bedded together.

Any doubt I had had about the relationship between Zeptha and Rachel, my prize Nubian, disappeared today, when Zeptha died.

Because of Zeptha's imminent birthing I had gone for hay, ten bales. Five bales of last-year's first cut brome/alfalfa and five bales of the better, second-cut brome/alfalfa. Because of her unknown, but obviously advanced, age I was planning on bringing Zeptha into a small pen and hand feeding her for the last week of her "troubles".

There is no way I can ever sneak around, in or out, without the herd knowing, and today as usual, when I turned in the drive, a herd of goats flew to the barn, hoping for some attention. I watched and named to myself each one. But I did not see Zeptha..or Rachel...or Hero, the buck.

When the engine of the truck died another sound was higher and louder. It was Zeptha, still at the fenceline 100 feet from the barn, making the most awful strangling noise. Rachel was "mothering" and "smurfing" her and Hero, male that he is, was attempting to offer the only life-giving thing he knew.. Half her size and several years younger he moved from nose to tail in an effort to motivate her to life. Rachel moved from side to side, supporting Zeptha as she stretched her neck and strangled and cried out to me and for air. I ran to her, ran back to the barn for grain to coax the others away from her..all but Rachel went easily..I had to drag Rachel away and literally push her into the barn.

I called the vet and he promised to come A.S.A.P. , which he did do,.

But Zeptha died today.

And I don't think I want to talk about it anymore.

The Parakeet

I’ve never been much of a bird lover and John’s nasty little Parakeet didn’t change it one bit. The hateful little critter resented me and the feeling was mutual. She was a nasty creature, tossing bird clutter all over her cage and onto the floor and as far as I was concerned, just another stinky thing for me to clean up.

She and I had this adversarial thing going and it didn’t end until her untimely death which WAS NOT MY FAULT.

Peace would reign and she would be sitting quietly on her little stick. I would walk into the room and she would begin bouncing and shrieking and tossing bird trash around like a demented person. I would shriek back at her and throw a dish rag or a dirty sock or a wadded up newspaper at her or try to sic the cat on her but the cat was never really interested..he was into mice and God only knows we had plenty of those….but the bird would not shut up until I covered her cage with a sheet.

After supper, while everyone else, including the bird, was taking their rest and enjoying the TV and family time without me in the living room, I would spend another hour cleaning the kitchen and getting clothes ready for the next day.

The bird would be chortling gently in her cage in the corner of the living room, preening her feathers, enjoying life and my husband and children would be laughing at something really entertaining on TV or each other. It was really irritating and I was generally drowning in self pity by then anyway so the bird didn’t help at all.

No matter how quiet I tried to be, as soon as I stepped into the room the bird would start shrieking and raising cane so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think, let alone a conversation or the TV.

And we would be back at the old..bird shrieks, I throw dirty sock, bird shrieks, I throw wadded up newspaper,, bird shrieks.. but soon I would give up because John would be glaring at me..at me..like it was my fault!! And he would talk sweetly to the nasty little thing and promise all sorts of rewards which only I could possibly come up with and had no intention of providing and the bird would sit calmly and tip it’s little green head like it was really a very nice person after all and act like it was listening reverently to everything John said. Ha!!.

I have to say that I had no remorse at all later, on that final day, running three red lights to get the tiny bunch of feathers in the cigar box to the vet, no remorse at all.

And I would not even remember it except for the tears on John’s cheeks when we finally came to a stop at the vet’s door and he said in the choking voice of an almost man child trying not to cry, “It’s too late, Mom. I think it’s too late.”

And it was.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Stupid was one of a large litter born one February to Susie, a Great Pyrenees, whose mountain instincts drove her to seek the wettest, coldest corner of the barn for the event. Efforts to move her to a warmer spot were seriously rejected and Stupid was the only survivor.

Stupid’s father was the neighbor’s delinquent Dalmatian whose one accomplishment in his rather short life….he got hit by the school bus…was the ability to climb the eight-foot woven wire fence to develop a relationship with Susie.

Susie, an absolute marvel at her livestock guardian duties, was a nonchalant mother and only visited the pup twice a day to let her nurse. Even at that the pup, a tiny handful at birth, grew phenomenally and within a week had quadrupled in size. But she was lonesome in her cold, wet hole in the corner of the barn and cried piteously at regular intervals for the first couple of days. Susie, deaf to the pup’s pleas, continued to spend her days and nights meeting her responsibilities to the herd.

But Maggie, whose own chance at motherhood had been cut short by surgery in her youth, heard the whimpering pup and the nurturing devotion of her Shepherd blood responded. On the morning of the third day after Susie left the barn for the field with her livestock charges, Maggie ran to the barn and found the pup and their relationship began.

Maggie spent her days with the pup, only leaving when it was time for Susie’s return. By the end of the week, except for the twice a day nursings, Maggie was the pup’s mother. Thanks to Maggie, the muddy little dirtball in the corner of the barn soon became a white ball of soft fuzz. She cleaned her and tumbled her and loved her to exhaustion until the pup would fall asleep between her front paws and I would find them there sleeping, Maggie’s nose resting on the pups fat tummy.

As the pup grew, Susie became even more detached, if possible, and Maggie no longer left at nursing time. I don’t know if Susie appreciated Maggie’s help but she certainly didn’t disapprove. Between the two of them the pup grew..and grew…and grew.

Surprisingly, Stupid lost her white baby fuzz and soon black spots, another gift from her father, dappled her sleek whiteness. She was also huge, a gift from her Great Pyrenees mother, and far bigger than Maggie. What she became was a beautiful coach dog like you see in old pictures riding on fire trucks. Stupid was beautiful!

But Stupid is as stupid does and Stupid earned her name, partly because of her comically awkward habits of tripping over feet that grew too quickly and running into barn doors and tumbling off woodpiles and hay bales. She climbed, (probably a trait inherited from her father) and couldn’t get down without falling. She got stuck going into places that had no way out. She gnawed strips off shed doors and dug up freshly planted tulip bulbs.

Stupid, I thought, was just plain stupid.

Definitely a slow learner, she misbehaved wildly and often, grabbing food right out of my hand, or another dogs mouth, scattering the chicken feed, spilling the dog water, pouncing on the hens and ducklings and jumping on guests.

But slowly, with a two steps forward and a step back kind of progress, Stupid began to learn. Thanks to Maggie, I began to see improvements in her behavior. It had become apparent early on that Maggie shielded the pup from my somewhat harsh discipline. If Stupid jumped on a guest she was severely chastised verbally and with a hard placed knee into her chest. If she was caught chasing a member of the poultry family she was thumped soundly and tied to the barn door for a day.

At first Maggie tried to forestall the pups discipline by placing her own body between me and the pup as soon as I raised my voice. This I couldn’t allow and therefore it did not work. But Maggie did not give up. She began her own discipline and I must say it worked better than mine. She simply put herself between the pup and whatever wicked entertainment Stupid was contemplating. When Stupid lost control at the sight of the newly hatched chicks and their tiny mother, Maggie was there blocking her path. The scattering-the-chicken-feed game ended. Twice I saw Maggie run the pup to the barn as I tossed the corn out for the free ranging hens.

I knew the battle was won when one bright morning Maggie, sitting obediently at my feet waiting for her special treat reserved for after-chore time, was joined by a solemn and decorous black and white spotted beauty known as Stupid. Stupid had never been given a treat at this time. She had not earned it and always tried unsuccessfully to take Maggie’s.

Maggie had been trained to sit, both by my saying the word “sit” or simply lowering my hand from chest high toward the ground. At either signal she would sit motionless for a reasonable length of time. I admit this was the only trick I ever taught her but it came in handy many times.

That morning Stupid lowered her bulk into the “sit” position beside Maggie, glancing first at me, then at Maggie, whom she now looked down on from her superior size, back to me, and back to Maggie. Unsatisfied with her own posture she scrunched her hind quarters a little forward and sat more compactly. Again she looked at me and back at Maggie. Apparently satisfied she fixed her gaze on me and waited for the treat.

She got her treat. Stupid may have been stupid but she had something better than superior brain power and better than beauty. Stupid wanted to learn.

And so learn she did. Not everything was uphill and hard work. Maggie taught her a lot of fun stuff like how to wrestle and how to get a cripple-grip on a foreleg in case she was ever in a fight to the death. Maggie had never had to use the dread cripple-grip herself but instinct told her how vital this was for a young dog to know. She taught her never to turn down surplus food but to run to the back of the barn with it to be buried in the manure pile. She taught her to relax in the heat of the day and to use the cool mornings for tug of war games with sticks and old feed sacks and other stuff that made strong jaws and sharpened reflexes.

And then one day Stupid was all grown up!

And the question had to be asked. What place did she have here? What was her job?

Susie, her mother, was totally and consistently committed to the herd and filled that position with awesome capability, taking the goats to pasture each morning, guarding against predators all day and in emergencies, such as gun shots, firecrackers, loud and unusual machinery rumbling by or rain, thunder and lightening, brought them back to the safety of the barn at a dead run. And every night, good weather and bad, she led them back to the barn for the night, occasionally falling to the rear to check for stragglers and little ones. But Stupid had no interest in the livestock.

Maggie, with the exception of her nurturing devotion to the rearing of Stupid, has had no allegiance to anyone or anything except myself and the tasks I required of her. In her youth she kept guard beneath my window each night, accompanied me every morning at chores and held livestock at bay so I could feed and water without fear of being trampled.

At my order, “Hold ‘em, Maggie” she would drive back the overly eager herd that threatened to flatten my none-too-good fence. As Maggie saw her responsibility, I was it! Even today, after eighteen years, except in the most inclement weather, she still sleeps on guard across my back doorsill. But Stupid, although friendly and gentle, looked upon me only as a provider and periodic disciplinarian.

What was there here for Stupid?

I needn’t have worried. Stupid, never leaving the yard, became the self-appointed gatekeeper and was soon very effective at the job. She lay at the end of the drive all alone, easily visible in her flamboyant black and white coat, and no one entered or left without her inspection. Friends were greeted, politely searched and escorted to the house. Strangers, entranced by her beauty, often made the mistake of taking liberties and were soon put in their place. Wanderers no longer used our drive as a turn-a-round. Neighbors’ dogs no longer left their calling cards at our driveway entrance. Stupid took her job very seriously.

But three big dogs were more than I could maintain. Stupid had received the regular medical care, as were all critters on the farm, and was spayed, vaccinated and wormed as needed. These things do not come cheap and feeding costs were getting out of hand. I half heartedly decided that I needed to find a home for Stupid. But she was such a great dog. Such a beauty and so full of character. Maggie had done her job well. It had to be just the right kind of home. It had to be just the right kind of situation. It had to be just the right kind of person.

I talked to my vet and we put a sign up in his office. I definitely wanted someone who valued their dog people enough to know the vet. Within a week a call came and a lady wanted to stop by and see my dog. She gave me her name and we made arrangements for her visit. I called the vet and talked to Bridgett, the receptionist to get a character reference on the caller. It was good. On the agreed upon day I called Stupid back from the gate and tied her to the yard gate near the house. (I had had my fill of animals mysteriously disappearing for a few days when their departure from the place was imminent.)

The lady drove down the unguarded drive and I knew by the look on her face when she saw the glorious Stupid in her sleek maturity that she was a goner but I agreed that she should definitely check out the animal shelter before making a decision. The pup, no longer a pup, and a friendly sort at heart, took to the lady. I think she thought she was going to untie her. She hated to be tied.

Late in the afternoon the lady returned and said she had seen nothing as great as my dog and would love to have her. We agreed that if it didn’t work out the dog would be returned A.S.A.P. Stupid, having been tied to the yard gate most of the day was more than willing to make nice and go anywhere with anybody.

As for the lady, she lived just a mile or two to the northeast and raised exotic animals! What she needed and wanted was a gatekeeper to discourage the questionably curious.

She asked me what the dog’s name was. I looked up toward the gate that had been so ably guarded, I glanced down at Maggie who was staring me right in the eye, and off over the pasture, hazy and misting up over the pond in the twilight….. I looked the lady right in the eye and said,

“Her name is Misty. We call her Misty.”

The Conversation of Cows

To say that animals do not speak is a grave error. I have been privy to remarkable conversations over the years and I’m here to tell you that those who eschew evesdropping, for moral reasons or otherwise, miss out on a lot.

The first time I realized with absolute certainty that animals converse was long ago while living in a developed area consisting of small homes on three acre plots. Each plot was complete with barns of varying architectural quality and the requisite pond. Our own home site included five large oaks, a stream in the front yard that ran through a tube beneath the driveway and a row of heavy-bearing apple trees, grapevines and a garden lot in the side yard.

The acre of pasture, sturdily fenced with woven wire, at the back contained our very own barn painted a rather fantastic pink and trimmed with cute little white shutters and pink doors with white crossbars on them. At the time, this pasture was the sole domain of Fred, a Jersey steer, originally purchased by city-bound friends to fill their freezer.

After making the mistake common to all novices of the agricultural world of allowing themselves and their two small daughters to accept the slobbering friendship Fred offered from day one, Fred was taken off the freezer list and hauled out to our place. There he enjoyed the good life of soft summer mornings, heat-hazed afternoons, sweet twilights, and the camaraderie of my sister-in-law’s milk cow and the black calf by her side. Fred and the cow would spend long and silent hours, each on their own side of the fence, swishing flies and occasionally swiping each others’ faces with long, wet rubbery tongues.

Fred’s lot in life was enhanced by the fact that he was able to come and go at will. One of the lessons I learned from Fred was that fences, no matter how good, only keep livestock in as long as they don’t have any pressing reason to get out.

However, Fred pretty much stayed in the pasture unless the kids were playing in the back yard, (he loved company and was incredibly curious) or I was hanging laundry. He had the habit of wandering along behind me to slurp the wet clothes, I think he liked the taste of soap, and I was always having to stick my arm down his throat to drag out a towel or something he had managed to half swallow.

Fred was very smart for a steer and until the last three days of his sojourn with us, never left the place. Even I, who believe in the conversation of cows, admit that his disappearance from the neighborhood the very day the call was finally made to send him to Morris’s Meat Locker in town, could have been a coincidence. It was not until three days later that we located him a mile and a half from home and clear across the highway. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions here.

If Fred was ever bored he never complained so I was surprised to see his excitement when the new owners moved into the place at our south fence line. But even I was impressed. It took them three days to unload. The first day the large cattle van groaned up the drive, easily visible from my back porch, four times. As soon as all this excitement commenced Fred ran like a deer, tail hiked in a wide sweeping curve, from the fence line where the milk cow and her black calf stood to station himself at the opposite fence line.

The first load contained a large but ancient white horse who seemed unable to lift his head above the level of his front hocks. I never saw a horse look so tired. Beside him trotted a very small brown pony. We learned later that the big one ate fence posts and the little one bit. But that was later.

Horses are convivial people for the most part and that day it didn’t take the pair long to approach Fred at the fence and..well the only way to say it is that they “communed.’ Heads hung low, hindquarters shifting rhythmically, punctuations of an occasional horse headshake or an indignant switch of Fred’s tail, the conversation obviously covered all the rudiments of new acquaintanceship.

I didn’t have anything better to do that day, like my life has been so earth shatteringly interesting, so I stayed there on the porch and watched the comings and goings of the trucked in newcomers and Fred’s neighborly response. After a few dozen headshakes and tail switchings Fred turned on a dime, the old tail hiked up and off he ran to report to the milk cow and the black calf. Same story, different fence. Heads down, indignant tail switchings, punctuated this time by long gazes across Fred’s shoulder toward the newcomers at the far fence line.

Another unloading, this time two black steers and a spotted cow..they understood the drill..straight to the fence line. Fred’s at his station..heads down..tailswitchings.. Turns on a dime and back to the milk cow and the black calf.

This continued until an incredible Noah’s Arc, sans arc, appeared on the three adjacent acres. Like I say, even I was impressed.

Throughout the rest of Fred’s stay with us he reported faithfully back and forth between the two, obviously friendly, camps regarding who’s moving in..who’s moving out..the health of all new babies..the inevitable death of the old horse.. Of course this is only conjecture on my part. I have no way of really knowing what was said in those urgently friendly first conversations or the subsequent neighborly discourse. But one thing I do know. They were conversing.

Horace Greeley and the Lovely Lyzette

Horace Greeley

and the Lovely Lyzette

Or

A Tragedy in Too Many Parts

Scarcely have I regretted anything more than my tragic and ill planned interference in the affairs of Horace Greeley and Lyzette.

I wonder, occasionally, how things would have turned out if I had stayed my inclination, just for once, to always have the last word..the upper hand etc.... Could things have been different.. Would all that tragedy have been averted or perhaps just postponed? It doesn’t bear thinking about as the deed was done and cannot now be altered.

But like all regrets..mine are gnarled and tortured with thoughts of the Eden that could have been and how sadly it was destroyed.

Horace Greeley, or Greeley as he soon came to be called, was a magnificent creature..a Drake of the Muskogee tribe in full manhood with a great deep grey chest, a broad smoothly feathered back and that wondrous red Muskogee knob that grew across the top of his slick black bill and down the side of each cheek. His flock.. (there for awhile I thought it was my flock) consisted of four sturdy and matronly hens, Edgar the over-grown half-breed drake who lived out his life at the periphery of Greeley and his grand dames, and the lithe and lovely Lyzette.

Lyzette was also a halfbreed but the better for it. She was small, sleek..and like I said, lithe with a gentle and graceful demeanor. She was not a bit uppity and never lorded it over the older and plainer ladies as they moved ponderously and seriously about the tasks Greeley set for them and for their part they treated her with a respectful gentleness I found hard to explain.

In the normal course of events I would never have been aware of Greeley’s management of his little flock but early that first spring, after a week or two of Greeley’s rather harsh and violent attentions, the hens began to lay large, white eggs willy-nilly all over the yard and barnyard. I herded the little group into the small yard between the house and the barn, rigged an open-faced, sloped roof shelter, filled a rubber feed pan with water and hoped the hens would take to motherhood. Greeley saw the potential immediately and set the hens to their task.

How he did this was simple but a little awesome. Every morning he herded them, one at a time, to the rubber feed pan of water and if they didn’t get in he would grab them by the neck and flog them with a two-foot wing until they did, whereupon he would dribble water over their backs with his bill and nibble under and around each wing to make sure it was wetted. As often as not this would incite him to a little play time but as soon as his lust was satisfied the hen would be driven back to the pile of eggs where she was expected to stay. And stay they did.

I saw him do this morning after morning. The purpose of the water was to keep the eggs moist I guess, an important component in the hatching of duck and goose goslings.

But Lyzette was totally exempt from Greeley’s hygienic attentions and was not required to attend to any eggs. She was his darling, the jewel in his crown..his personal pleasure. He kept her close and Edgar far. Much of Greeley’s day, after the hens were taken care of, was spent in keeping Edgar in his place and away from any contact with Lyzette. This was strange as Lyzette was never subjected to the somewhat manic physical attention Greeley visited periodically upon the poor working girls.

But Greeley was devoted to her and she to him. She moved lightly, always at his left side and he would speak in that chuckly cooing sound of contented water fowel and she would answer in a voice just a little more gentle as he called her to some choice morsel: ..a grub in the mulch under the forsythia..a half-sprouted kernel of corn over looked a few days ago... a hapless grasshopper downed by a swift and furious attack from Greeley’s bill.

And in the warm afternoons..when Muskogees take their rest, Greeley and Lyzette would lie breast to breast and he would allow her to rest her small white head upon him right at that juncture where the wing connects to the body and she would doze and he might doze but mostly he watched for Edgar.

But Edgar..poor Edgar.. My heart was moved by the vicious attacks inflicted upon him. His loneliness haunted me. To see a creature so alone but not alone was sad and needed a remedy. Or so I thought. And so the dye was cast.

I decided four hens were enough for Greeley and Edgar should have the gentle Lyzette. Oh that it could be undone but it cannot.

To achieve this goal I created a pen within a pen around the communal mound of eggs where the four hens were ensconced and herded Greeley in with them and fastened the wire. It took him about thirty seconds to see the separation of Lyzette and he called her to him and she came and paced the wire her side and he paced the wire on his.

Thinking they would adjust to this arrangement I went into the house to shower.

But I had grossly misjudged Edgar’s character. Just out of the shower and standing at the tall windows on the north side of the house, I witnessed the rape of Lyzette.

Edgar, once having understood that Greeley could not touch him and realizing Lyzettes helplessness, attacked with a vengeance I would never have attributed to any creature other than human. He grabbed Lyzette by the neck threw her repeatedly into the fence at Greeley’s feet until she was too stunned to evade him..and he did the dirty deed.

Greeley, insane with anger, and what I then recognized as grief, beat the ground, the wire and anything he could reach with both great wings. But I couldn’t get there fast enough and the innocence that was Lyzettes was gone.

I kicked at Edgar and cursed the day he was hatched and he merely shrugged as all creatures with small souls do when caught in some dastardliness but how was I to know his soul was so small? Oh, how was I to know?

I tore the fence down and hoped Greeley would tear Edgar apart but he did not. He went to Lyzette, a poor rumpled and traumatized Lyzette, and looked long and hard at her, turned his back and waddled away.

Who knows what goes on in Muskogee minds? All I know is that nothing was ever the same between them. All that was gentle and beautiful had been destroyed. No more gentle chuckles and coos between them, no more offerings of tender grubs..no more afternoon snoozes..Greeley dozed alone.

For a few days Lyzette followed dejectedly behind Greeley as of old but he no longer acknowledged her. She lost that lovely sleekness and became a little disheveled and I realized that it had been Greeley who kept her groomed and glowing. Finally, for lack of any company at all, she joined the pedestrian ladies, lying at the edge of the communal egg pile, far lonelier than Edgar had ever been.

It Wasn't My Fault!

Dang near caught the house on fire this morning but it wasn't my fault!

The blinds over the sink got melted and now have a really strange droopy look. The reason the blinds got melted was because the kitchen sink faucet dripped into the skillet that was left on the fire too long. Water on a grease fire makes the fire part jump way up!

The reason the skillet was left on too long was because of the cow tracks on the patio. Now I don’t know how city dwellers look upon cow tracks on the patio, but in North Missouri it is not a good thing. The cow foot prints were very large ones and went across the yard to the road!

I was frying hash browns when I noticed the footprints. It should have just taken a second to let Bingo back in after her morning jaunt but she had something in her mouth. I stepped out to see what it was and to make sure she didn’t carry in a piece of the dead deer, probably road-kill, the dogs had dragged into the yard a couple of days ago. It wasn’t. It was a piece of a dead chicken that had appeared in the yard alongside the deer. Did you ever notice that everything looks so untidy this time of year?

I had nothing to do with the dead deer or the dead chicken in the yard!

I no longer have cows and these cows were not my responsibility but I tracked the tracks back to the barn. This meant the guy who rented my pasture forgot a step in the procedure before he put cows in last weekend. He did not shut the barn door. That is the Lord’s honest truth. For some reason he didn’t think the cows would step up the two steps to go in…and out of the barn.

I don't know how ANY of this could have been construed as being my fault so I repeat. It was NOT my fault.

Herb and Herb

After the little glitch with the purchase of Lillian the Morphadite, and acknowledging that she/he would not and could not not live up to my expectations for stocking the farm with my very own herd I went shopping again.

Unwilling to put my trust in an organization that hadn't been sharp enough to notice Lillian's little problem, I chose another sale barn and began buying an occasional black Angus or "baldy" heifer whenever I could scrimp out the money. A baldy is a cross between a Black Angus and a White Face Hereford. I built up a herd of eight scrubby looking heifers and rented a bull. Yes, you can rent a bull. A year later I had calves. The bull I rented looked better than the sale barn heifers so the calves were very nice if I do say so. It's all in the genes.

I decided to buy a steer for meat and the disposition of the Holstein breed appealed to me, so one Saturday when two little black and white spotted steers gamboled into the sale ring I bid on them..paid too much.. and brought them home.

The thing you have to remember about sale barn buying is that everything looks smaller from up in the bleachers. In my excitement I had not kept that in mind and when I backed the Ford Ranger with the rattly old cattle-panel cage up to the loading dock the loader looked at me very strangely. The two leggy "calves", so endearingly small in the ring, ambled out and walked calmly onto the swaying truck. They were very tall. They had no trouble seeing over the cab. When they moved the truck bed swayed alarmingly.

"Are you sure about this, Laura?" the guy asked.

"It's not very far. We'll be fine." We were in Gallatin. We had a twenty mile drive more or less on a fourlane highway and eight miles of winding, hilly blacktop road to the farm.

At the sound of my voice two long identical black and white faces turned, as if on the same hinge, to stare at me. It was a little disconcerting. But even with all that size it was baby eyes that looked at me and babies they were. They probably had never been around any women and certainly never asked to ride in such a flimsy vehicle but their's was an attitude of total trust and calm. Obviously they had never been abused and were not frightened and that was a good sign.

We started off. They stood quietly, only occasionally bending their twin heads to peer into the rear window of the pickup. I think they were checking to make sure I was still there. To tell the truth I was terrified. We went very slowly with me praying mightily that they would not get in a tussle or shift too suddenly. I knew that if they tired of looking forward and decided to turn to look out the rear their own momentum would send them over the side.

We attracted a lot of attention. Evidently the sight was so intriguing it inhibited any trend toward road rage from people wanting to get somewhere faster than 30 miles an hour. People drew up beside us..it was a four-lane thank heaven..children pointed and laughed..old men grinned..women stared .. It was a little embarrassing. I waved nonchalantly with my best two-finger farmer wave.

I reached out and tilted the side mirror so I could barely see the side face of the steer right behind me. I swear, he was enjoying the ride.

We made it home alright. I opened the gate to the pen by the barn and backed the truck on in. After the gate was shut I lowered the tail gate and swung the back cattle panel open so they could jump down. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to leave their own personal limousine and only came down when I started to walk away. I guess they figured it was no fun without the chauffeur because they finally came down.

They were totally and absolutely identical and I could never tell them apart so I named them Herb and Herb.

The Inexact Science

As any third grader who has ever planted a bean seed or tried to hatch a chicken egg under a light bulb can tell you, farming is not an exact science.

But as a retired female farmer I can honestly say that farming can be very rewarding. I actually made money and managed to pay off a fifteen-year mortgage on my very own tiny thirty-four acre farm seven years ahead of time.

I managed this by working like a dog, eating like a bird, dressing like the county rag-picker and in the early years, drinking like a sailor. Actually, I have to admit that even if I hadn’t spent the better part of my adult life farming I would still have worked like a dog, ate like a bird and dressed like the county rag-picker. And I remember the days of drinking like a sailor with nostalgia. It’s got to be in the genes.

But like I say, my choice of lifestyle was not an exact science and the learning curve was more like a roller coaster. On the up-swing and in the down swoop, I met some of the most awesome and interesting people, feathered, bristly and hairy, and on that wild ride they taught me all I know about myself and the part of the world we shared.

I did not come to farming by accident but with intent, forethought and resolve. It was my intention to exert a pragmatic discipline and control of all in my domain. The grass would grow, the weeds would die, the water would run, the stock would be docile and multiply with little help from me and I would prosper.

I named the place “Faith Farm” and the gully at the bottom of the East slope, formerly used as a neighborhood dump site, was renamed “Red Hawk Canyon” for the many red-tailed hawks that swooped and sailed so gracefully across the woods and pastures. After the graceful hawks picked off enough of my ducks, guineas and best laying hens I quit calling the gully Red Hawk Canyon and just called it “The Dump”.

The day of my first livestock purchase was an exciting one. Livestock sale barns are like nothing more than large, seedy, hotels in the bad part of town temporarily populated by the agricultural world’s misfits; the unwanted, the castoffs and the disabled. The tragedy of families, tribes and life-time social groups torn asunder and disbursed at the mercy of the Gods in coveralls is enacted over and over.

From this worthy offering I chose a small heifer..entered the bidding,…paid too much…was proud to get her…and brought her home. She was gentle, ate well, loved the barn and was weaned so I spent a lot of time the next day just looking at her and trying to calculate how many years it would take me to build up a herd from this leggy creature chowing down in the corner of the barn. I named her Lillian.

Unfortunately the heifer part was right but she also had other equipment not visible unless you actually witnessed the urine stream cascading from her/his sheath beneath her/his belly. Lillian was a hermaphrodite. News travels fast in rural areas and for years, every time I called the vet the receptionist would holler, “Hey, Doc. It’s the lady that bought the morhadite!.”

A Few Last Winters

A Few Last Winters

This winter weather has really been hard for livestock and wildlife in our part of the world. I guess almost every place in the country is in the same boat..or on the same ice floe.

I think my old Maggie has just about given up. Her frolic efforts are pretty feeble and send her into coughing fits. She no longer goes to the smoke house. I don't know why. Evidently it is colder there than out in what bitter, thin sunlight she can find. She was trembling so bad at feeding time this morning she could hardly walk. I think last night was about the end of her and tonight will be twice as bad with 19 below being called for in our part of the county.

This last series of storms is the first that she hasn't met with the joie de vivre of a happy fool, warmed by her great heart and insulated with two-inch underwear of fleece and an overcoat of heavy hair. But no amount of hay or windbreak cuts this kind of cold from 18-year-old dog bones after ten days of subzero to ten degree temperatures.

I couldn't stand it anymore so, even knowing that she may die sooner than later, I brought her in this morning for the duration.

She hates it inside and it took some coaxing to get her into the back entry way but there she is. She drank a good quart of hot milk replacer and after the shaking stopped she ate well. She does not like to be in and I imagine as soon as she warms up she will fight to get back out. But she WILL stay in tonight and as long as she will stay for that matter.

She has outlasted so many winters ...

How Festus the Pig Came to the Farm

How Festus the Pig Came to the Farm

I was in the pig business. That is, I had two young girl pigs (gilts) that wanted to be momma pigs. More accurately, I wanted them to be momma pigs. But we needed a father pig. This is a biological fact I learned in Animal Husbandry 101 my seventh year of college. This was definitely a problem. No father pig, (boar) was to be found or at least none anyone local wanted to part with. Most had already been offered employment or sent off to become breakfast bacon or Easter Ham.

So I mentioned it to my ex husband who would still, at that time, take up my causes occasionally and as good luck would have it, he knew a guy who knew a guy. Purely coincidentally the guy lived down in Henry County where a lot of old friends still attended the same watering hole they used to frequent when we lived down there. It was mutually understood that he would have to make first contact at this location therefore it might take some time. I had learned this lesson well during our marriage.

Even so I was grateful and looked eagerly forward to the arrival of such an important addition to my pig business. Well, I kept eagerly looking forward and by the third day my eyes were beginning to dim up from looking forward so much and my temper was fraying.

Gretchen and Gertrude, the pig girls, were alternately running in nervous piggy circles and listlessly slumping by the barn door. They needed a fella!

As some girls longed for jewelry or great clothes I pined for that hog. As some girls would pout and sniff over a missing birthday gift I was furious over the non-existent pig companion. But at last, one crisp morning four days later, my ex's old pick-up rattled into the yard. He was only slightly more disheveled than usual and his beard hadn't grown too badly but it was still pretty obvious to the educated eye that he had had a good time reminiscing with all his old friends.

I ran straight to the back of the pick up and there he was. My great white hope, the expected progenitor of my great pig venture, lay stretched out the width of the truck bed. He was young and perfectly proportioned with sleek sides and good length. His skin glowed pinkly in the morning sun. His rump was plump..his back was broad..in short, he was a beauty.

But he wouldn't get up! No, he COULDN'T get up! He tried. He got his front part up. He got his front part up several times only to drop back. I got a pan of corn to coax him. He tried harder. Surely my ex would not have bought a sick pig!

"Well, no," my ex explained, "It was probably something he ate at the barbecue." "What barbecue?" I shrieked.

Well it seems that the watering hole friends had moved the party to somebody's house in honor of my ex's visit and the pig had survived for three days on left-over barbecue and the remains of a keg of beer.

The pig was drunk!

I named him Festus because of the limp and stagger thing that afflicted him for a few days but when he sobered up sufficiently he made the piggy girls very happy.