Piglets, unlike pizza, are not delivered. I’d be upset but then again you can’t get pizza delivered to my house either.
For equipment I’d borrowed the Foxinator’s “Pig Trailer”. Her “Pig Trailer” is an old horse trailer she uses for hauling pigs (and chickens, and goats, and God knows what else). The “Pig Trailer” is different from the “Pony Trailer” which is the handy little utility trailer I loaned to the Foxinator so she could drive it to a “My Little Pony” convention. That means her “Pig Trailer” was made for horses which she doesn’t have and I haul garbage and firewood on a “Pony Trailer” even though pastel cartoon ponies give me the heebie jeebies. Got all that? I can draw a diagram.
Because rural life is like it is, I bought pigs which were owned by, delivered by, and largely fed and raised by the Foxinator but the Foxinator wasn’t there to help me get them on the trailer. I was mildly alarmed because there were many dozen pigs and I was supposed to come home with three specific ones that had been jointly pre-selected by Mrs. Curmudgeon and the Foxinator based on age, breed, and cuteness. This had been setup on Facebook despite the fact that all pigs look alike to me and I don’t “do” Facebook.
Fortunately I had help. Because I’m paranoid about names, dates, information, and basically everything all the time (according to Mrs. Curmudgeon) I’ll give my friendly helper the anonymous nickname; “Pig Dood”. Pig Dood knew what to do. Pig Dood deserves a better nickname but I’m out of ideas. (You may think I write creatively. I don’t. I just stumble through life regularly falling face first into weird things and try to describe what happened. At least that’s my theory and it’s also why “Pig Dood” is the best I could think up and only slightly better than “Party A”.)
I rolled up with the Pig Trailer and looked around for a loading chute. I expected to back up to a chute, open an array of cleverly designed gates and shoo three pigs into the trailer. As you might have guessed, it was nothing like that.
There were no chutes and Pig Dood handed me a syringe. Being clueless, all I could think of was that one scene with John Travolta in Pulp Fiction.
“No thanks, I’m trying to cut back.” I chuckled. Pig Dood, because he is not a nutcase, didn’t get my joke. He opened the trailer’s door and purposefully strode off to one of several outbuildings. I trailed along holding God knows what in a scary pointy delivery device as if it was uranium. Also, where was the chute?
Pig Dood wandered into a smallish shed and I got my wits about me. A lot of farm veterinary stuff happens with injectors that look suspiciously like staple guns but that doesn’t mean a syringe won’t do the same job. Plus I want healthy bacon. I’m not some hippie that freaks out about chemistry and biology. I relaxed and wondered what Pig Dood was up to.
Then… all. hell. broke. loose.
Something horrific and clearly spawned of Satan started making a noise that was never meant to be heard in this universe. It was like dolphins trumpeting on a vuvuzela while Gilbert Gottfried rapes a bagpipe… in hell.
I’m sure you know that pigs squeal. I know that pigs squeal too but this was not squealing. Saying this was “merely a squeal” is saying the Hindenburg was a “minor mishap”, the Tower of Pisa is “slightly off center”, and Pompeii had some “geologic issues”.
I was struck by a wall of sound designed to let you know that the creature involved was convinced it was going to die and he was not going to go peacefully into that dark night. Pig Dood emerged from the shed with a kicking, screaming, bundle of terror, rage, and fury the likes of which should be coming from a
F-22 hornet B-52 Stratofortress with aerial constipation and not livestock.
I stood there like a deer in headlights. The piglet never gave up. He tore the air to shreds and made damn sure that everyone in the county knew it was in mortal danger and that the end was night and that all hope was not lost because he was going to fight and scream until he’d spent every last bit of every cell’s energy.
I administered the injection (which gave the creature just one more reason to believe it was going to be torn to pieces any minute and therefore it should scream louder). Once in the trailer, the piglet shut right up. Whew.
We repeated the process with a second pig. It had seen it’s sibling torn from their happy home it had time to ponder it’s grim future and prepare to wail even louder. Which it did.
Then came a third pig which was a larger male in an outdoor pen. Pig Dood had to chase that one a while. It made less noise but struggled harder. I think this was the “cute” one.
The F-22 is a Raptor. A Hornet is an F-18.
*OCD switch off*
P.S. – Will trade pickles for bacon. I got a little carried away, now we have enough pickles to last probably until 2017 or so.
I misspoke; it sounded like a Raptor eating a Hornet after being hit with a Stratofortress.
John in Philly,
Years ago my wife and I visited friends who were, and still are, farming in Southwestern Pennsylvania. Our visit coincided with the piglet gelding.
First, no male of any species should be a part of this.
Second, if you are using the incision technique, do not use it on a piglet that most likely had a hernia. The leakage of intestines from the gelding site was quite distressing, and the piglet may have rivaled in sound and fury the noise your piglets made.
Until my coworkers wised up, I used to remark from time to time that I never finished medical school. Finally one asked if I ever started medical school. Of course I had not.
But that day I used dental floss and a heavy gauge needle to do surgery on that little future football. We sprayed the intestines with some kinda antibiotic, than stuffed them back in and sewed up the tear. It was impossible to push the needle through the skin with my fingers and I had to resort to holding the needle with pliers.
If you think the piglet was unhappy before, you did not want to hear him now. Due to my previously mentioned lack of proper surgical experience, I sewed him up like fixing a tear in blue jeans, and finished with a nice square knot.
The post surgery followup report was that the piglet lived through the aftermath, but he was one of the first ones out of the gate to be the centerpiece at a holiday dinner. One of my father’s oft repeated requests was to have a roast piglet with an apple in it’s mouth, and a carrot stuck up…I think you can figure that one out on your own.
When I related my story to a real surgeon, he said human skin was surprisingly tough to sew.
A story for a future time is the process in getting a mature pig ready for the Fourth of July cookout.
John in Philly
F-18 Hornet. F-22 Raptor. With thanks from the aviation pedants of the internet.
Because I care, I’ve substituted “B-52 Stratofortress with aerial constipation”.
When you mentioned how you’re like John Travolta I figured Pulp Fiction was coming. But I was expecting, “But bacon is good, Pork chops are good…. I did not expect the freaky scene with the Flair pen and the humongous needle.
I think I administered the shot with less drama that Travolta but my hair isn’t nearly as well coiffed. He dances well and I can string fence well… life isn’t fair. (Actually I’m not perfect at stringing fence either… life sucks.)
Just as long as you can avoid the whole “shredded by machine gun when emerging from the bathroom” thing, life is good.
Tactical error on Vincent’s part. One should always take their weaponry with them to the can.
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