So, the pigs are going back from whence they came. With these two, we really bit off more than we can chew. To quote from the email Fred sent out to the various people who were buying one and a half of the pigs (the last half being ours, of course): The pigs I bought … Continue reading “2/5/09”

2009-02-05 (4)

So, the pigs are going back from whence they came. With these two, we really bit off more than we can chew. To quote from the email Fred sent out to the various people who were buying one and a half of the pigs (the last half being ours, of course):

The pigs I bought in Tennessee came from a factory farm hog raiser,
and they were considered “culls” because they have inguinal hernias,
which are small holes in their abdominal walls. Their intestines can
come out through the hole, making a bulge on the pig’s underbelly.
According to the man I bought them from, it’s a simple matter to “poke
the guts back up in the hole” regularly, and the pigs will eventually
get big enough that their intestines no longer protrude.

I did not find this to be the case.

After days of crawling through poop and wrestling squealing pigs, I’ve
had enough and am returning them to the man I got them from.

I’ll let you know when I find another (normal) pair.

Sorry for any inconveniences this may cause.

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On Tuesday when Fred got home from work, we went out so that I could hold each pig while he “poked the guts back up in the hole”. These pigs are little but HOLY SHIT were they hard for me to hold. Apparently the best way to hold a pig is by their ears, and although I was reluctant, I did it. It didn’t, for the record, hurt them. Just made them angry and squeal very loudly.

(The volume of a tiny pig squealing is utterly amazing.)

So Fred did the poking, and after their guts were poked up into the hole, the guts? Immediately slipped back out. Okay. Well, apparently their guts were big enough to stay, right?

Yesterday when Fred got home from work, we went out. Only this time, instead of looking curiously at us when we walked into their shelter, the pigs remembered the horror from the day before (and again, nothing we did HURT them, it just scared them) and went shooting out of the shelter. Big Pig made it – we managed to catch Little Pig. I was just barely able to hold on to the pig while Fred did his thing. Big Pig, seeing that we were distracted by Little Pig, came over to investigate, and then bit my boot, hoping it was food.

Pigs = stomachs on legs.

Little Pig done (and yes, the guts slid right back out), we had to lure Big Pig with food. The dogs were exceedingly interested in watching us. I had a VERY hard time keeping hold of Big Pig, and after trying his best to push guts, Fred finally gave up and told me to let Big Pig go.

We came inside and discussed it, and Fred called the guy we’d gotten the pigs from. The guy told him “Oh, you don’t need to do it every day, just every ten days or so.”

“Here’s the problem,” I said to Fred. “I was – barely – able to hold onto the pigs today. In ten days, I don’t know that I’m going to be able to.”

We talked some more, and ultimately decided to give the pigs back to the guy this Sunday. The man who sold us our first two pigs last year will have some later this month, so chances are good we’ll be buying from him. The guy who sold us these two pigs will likely be able to find someone at the flea market to buy these two, so they won’t be going back to a factory situation.

And that’s what’s going on with the pigs!

It’s kinda too bad that they’re going back, because they’ve certainly got personality.

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From the side yard, driving Sugarbutt crazy:

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Tufted Titmouse, keeping an eye on you.

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Finch sock, right outside the side door.

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The other Finch sock, about twenty feet away.

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From the chicken yard:

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Chicken George has gone broody. Fred put her in a cage last night to break her from the broodiness.

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Our wee Silkie has started laying the prettiest little pink eggs. In a few months, we very well may try hatching a few. (Silkies are purported to be very good mothers.)

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Silkie in the yard.

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Michelle and the wimminfolk.

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Life on the farm is kinda laid-back.

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The speckled rooster. I think he’s awfully pretty – I’ve started calling him Bob. Fred was going to process him back when he did all those chickens a few weeks ago, but I begged for his life and Fred relented. (Or I said “No, let’s keep him.” One or the other.)

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Keeping an eye on the flock.

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It’s a George.

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Eyeballing the flock.

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2009-02-05 (8)
Every goddamn time we go somewhere and Fred needs to run inside or go do something at the other end of the vehicle while I wait in the vehicle, he leaves the goddamn door wide fucking open. WIDE OPEN. It was like TEN GODDAMN DEGREES that day, and we were getting straw or feed or something, so he backed up to the loading dock and got out to give his sales slip to the guy, and left the door wide open. WIDE MOTHERFUCKING OPEN. Occasionally he’ll give the door a half-hearted push so that it closes part of the way. I fucking ASK YOU – how DIFFICULT is it to shut the goddamn door? JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY.

2009-02-05 (24)
When I do the dishes, I do the dishes. That is, I put whatever will fit in the dishwasher into the dishwasher, I wash what doesn’t go in the dishwasher, then I dry and put said dishes away. THAT is what I consider “Doing the dishes.” Because if you leave dishes drying beside the sink overnight, you just might walk into the kitchen to find that a cat has helpfully peed upon the drying dishes. (YES, THIS IS MY LIFE. CAN WE GET MORE CATS, PLEASE?) Fred, on the other hand, puts what he can into the dishwasher, washes what won’t fit, and then piles them to the side of the sink and leaves them there forever. (IF YOU SAY “WELL AT LEAST HE DOES THE DISHES” I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND CUT YOU. Most nights “doing the dishes” for him entails putting his dirty dinner dish into the dishwasher.) Last night, after I gave him shit for not putting the dishes away, he said “Well, you should have said ‘Can you come put these dishes away?'” (1) WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO? DOES HE NOT SEE THAT THE DISHES NEED TO BE PUT AWAY? (2) If I had, I GUARANTEE I would have gotten the “Oh, you’re allllllllllways thinking up things for me to do!” PARDON ME if I think that picking up the bag of cat shit and taking it over to the garage WHEN YOU ARE HEADED THAT WAY ANYWAY is “thinking up things for you to do”, motherfucker!

(It might be one of Those Days. You know, a day that started off with stepping in a puddle of cold cat barf, followed by a couple of cats screaming at each other? Yeah, like that.)

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I love how it looks in this picture like Rumba’s yelling at Samba. “You just stay over there! I need my space!”

More kitten pics over at Love & Hisses.

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He’s a happy Joe.

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2008: At one point I turned around to say something to Sugarbutt, who was sitting by the screen door leading to the back yard, smacking at the cat door, and I saw every single chicken sitting on the back steps, staring expectantly at me, hoping I’d send some food their way.
2007: God. That sounds just like a herd of elephants, I thought.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2003: Pictures found.
2002: That’s just the kind of sucky slacking emailer I am.
2001: You know, if I had ANY self-control at all, I’d wait to buy these books ’til they come out in paperback.
2000: No entry.