Piglet Pandemonium

The best laid plans always begin with a well thought out and perfectly executed idea. This is probably why our plans rarely work well. It all started with the new fence. We himmed and hawed and finally decided on rough cut boards. Functional as well as visibly appealing in my opinion. All summer and most of the fall was dedicated to building my beautiful new fence and after only a dozen or so family meltdowns and a couple of smashed in thumbs, our work was complete. Even the principal of the school had to admire how well my family worked together and after she heard of the fencing job, the boys were excused from announcing in the playground several expletives they’d picked up in the process. And so, with the last hammer of the nail and four letter word uttered, we breathed a sigh of contentment and tucked the pigs into their new enclosures.
During this time one of the sows had farrowed a lovely litter of twelve and as much as I loved having them romp free around the farm, the time had come to separate them from their mom. We were glowing with pride at the new pen we had ready for them. Their house was filled with warm bedding and I imagined how such a welcoming environment would sooth the distress of weaning. As I propped myself against the fence to admire the barnyard, a new thought occurred to me. Unfortunately, the space between the boards was just large enough for the piglets to wiggle through and they’d be running back to mom within seconds. Huh.
“Well, maybe we should string some wire along the bottom?”
“Yes, we could, but I didn’t spend months tearing down all the wire fencing and building a board fence only to put wire over the boards again. What would the point in that be?”(said with escalating hysteria)
“Ok, so now what?”
“How should I know? Why do I always have to come up with a solution?”
And so on and so forth….. If memory serves I should add that one of us chucked the pitch fork into the bush and stalked away with haughty indignation, but I wouldn’t want to mention Paul’s name. After a couple of days, we decided to string some electric fence. Just one strand along the bottom would do the trick until they were bigger and unable to squeeze through the slats. We went to the feed store to make the required purchases and just as we were about to begin setting up, the heavens opened in a freak snowstorm, complete with weather channel warnings and all. No problem, we’ve worked in worse. With chattering teeth and soaked clothing we were finally able to turn on the electric fence. The faint hum coming from the wire was a sweet sound after all we’d been through and we called the boys over so they could help move the piglets in. Amazingly this went off without a hitch. I was so giddy I wasn’t thinking straight and so the only safety precaution I took was to sing the boys a song:
“Don’t wizz………..on the electric fence!”
Thinking that was sufficient enough information I turned toward the house with plans of a warm and relaxing hot toddy floating around my head.
The screaming and squealing exploded right about then and I turned to see Quinn with one hand on the ground post and the other hand on the electric wire. His eyes were bulging and his horrible scream curled my toes. He managed to let go and began sobbing in great gulps which in turn spooked the piglets something fierce. All I could do was watch as a dozen piglets went running right through the electric fence, out into the barn and straight back to their mom. Little sparks permeated the night and with each squeal I grew closer to the realization that all hope of weaning the piglets was lost, at least on this night.
Once the initial shock wore off, we assessed Quinn and found him to be just fine. Thankfully he stopped drooling and rocking after a couple of days and the only sign that anything happened at all is a funny twitch in the left eyelid.
As for the piglets, I’ve decided that having them romp free around the farm isn’t so bad and eventually they’ll be big enough to move to their new home. We’ve also decided that fencing really isn’t our forte and have abandoned future fencing projects in favor of totally renovating the barn. I have high expectations that our foresight and common sense will carry us through and that the end result won’t be quite as shocking as the new fence proved to be. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

Check Your Squeamisness At The Gate

There are many, many, many things I’ve been forced to do since moving here. While most are exciting, new and rewarding, there are a handful that are miserable, revolting and horrid. Come to think, I can count more in favor of the latter at the moment. Here’s a quick list of the awefullness ( I know, it’s not a real word ) that I’m subjected to:
* The removal of rotting turkey carcass that is dripping in maggots and stuck in a bramble bush of all things.
* The removal of a half rotten, mummified piglet from the VERY top of it’s living mother’s birth canal.
* Revival of stillborn piglets via mouth to snout resuscitation.
* Numerous recoveries of departed chicken bodies.
* The discovery of partially developed and slightly decomposed chic embryos who’s eggs have fallen from the nest.
* Rescue missions involving dead baby blue birds who’s mother has died and is rotting in the nest on top of said babies.

I told you. Check your squeamishness ( another ” Brie” word ) at the gate.
You can see why I’m afraid to wake up most mornings as one never can tell what’s waiting on the other side of the door it seems. Just last week for example, I lost one of the weaner piglets due to the extreme heat. Of course it was me that found her, but luckily Paul was home and took over the sad job of disposal. I guess I should have clarified with him just exactly HOW the dead piglet was put to rest and have made a mental note to do so in future, as this morning I had a terrible flashback to grade 11 English when we had to do a book report on “Lord of the Flies.” (You know where I’m going with this already, don’t you?) As horrifying as the above list may be, nothing tops walking outside in a gentle rain only to come across the decapitated half chewed on head of one of my beloved piglets. It glared at me in paradox with a sick sort of snarl on the half that was decipherable, but at the same time was winking at me as if to say “ha ha! Jokes on you!”
And truly, it is. ; (

Dirty Jobs

Once upon a time in an office far, far away was a young woman who quite enjoyed her job. While the office space itself may have been somewhat cramped, she had the pleasure of working with a lovely group of people and spent many a morning looking forward to seeing them. She wore beautiful clothes and had shoes to die for. Her coiffeur was always stylishly turned out and her makeup; impeccable. When seen galivanting about town, one couldn’t help but notice the confident bounce in her step. Then one day she had a nervous breakdown, bought a farm and spent the remainder of her days looking like shit and too busy to eat anything but cereal out of the box. To her utmost horror and dismay she once pulled into Save On parking lot wearing, wait for it….
gum boots! No more was she the bouncy and confident one, but rather a hideous, slimy, slithering thing who had stooped so low that she now wore baseball hats rather than bother with her hair! ‘Tis a sad tale I speak of, no question. Thankfully, the character in the story bares no resemblance whatsoever to myself, although there may be some tiny parallels. Like, teeny tiny. For instance, tonight especially, I wonder what I’m doing, exactly. One of the piglets is sick and I’ve seen enough death on the farm to be fairly certain he won’t make the night, although I hope I’m wrong. Paul goes to his own dirty job in the morning which leaves me with the downright filthy vocation that I willingly, I repeat, willingly chose. WTF? A death on the farm is bad enough, but what’s worse is being the one that has to find it, feel bad about it, and lastly, figure out what the hell to do with it, if you catch my drift. This all takes place before 9am on a good day and I can’t help but think that I could be seated at a computer, sipping coffee, and complaining that my feet hurt, rather than play my current role which can consist of a multitude of disgusting, sad and just plain gross tasks.
Mind you, disgusting, sad, and just plain gross are also words one might use when summing up my previous jobs ( you know, the ones that actually resulted in a paycheck.)
So my next question is; is it possible to farm in shoes to die for, or will I die farming in shoes that kill me?
If you catch my drift.

Dirty Jobs

This Ain’t Farmin’ (or) Fan Me With Palm Fronds and Feed Me Grapes.

Recently my husband bought me a baby monitor. I guess he grew tired of me being so bitchy what with having to drag my exhausted self from my warm bed three times a night to check on farrowing pigs. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something else to be bitchy about. It’s a gift I have actually. I can’t believe it’s my turn to say this, but man have baby monitors ever come a long way since my day! This one has a screen so I can watch the pigs from the comforts of my bed.
It’s funny that a baby monitor could fertilize the strange thoughts that have begun to hatch in my brain, such as the meaning of the words”real farmer, ” but I must not question the muse of creativity, whatever it may be.
I realize, in no uncertain terms, that I ain’t no farmer (though I CAN talk like one, y’alls.) Take my ancestors for example. The difference between us is monumental, no matter how much like them I try to be. They farmed because they had to. Their very existence depended on the strength of their stock and whether they were granted enough rain to grow the crops that were, literally, the deciding factor in the survival of the entire family. That being said, my ancestors did a great job considering I’m here at all, and I often send them a mental apology for comparing myself to them as, really, there is no comparison. I do however, have the right to say that farming blood runs through my veins, and I know they’d be proud of me, regardless of my reasons for doing this which are, I’ve discovered, are purely selfish. I’ve got a baby monitor in my room for goodness sake! I bitch about getting up at night when I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO! If my crops fail, I simply go to Save On Foods and buy unhealthy, processed junk that will prematurely age us all and give us terrible indigestion. Compared to the “real farmers” I’m being fanned with palm fronds and fed grapes, albeit without an army of tanned, half naked cabana boys. Poor me.

Rudy’s Arrival

Recently I heard that chickens are slowly forgetting how to hatch their own chics. I’m not sure how much stock I put in that but I suppose it could be true. I know that my chickens get “broody” once in awhile, although not all will sit on a clutch right up to the “due date,” which leaves me in a fairly disturbing conundrum, as I’m left with the job of sitting it out for them, which not only takes me away from my very busy life but is vaguely uncomfortable as well. Just kidding! It’s EXTREMELY uncomfortable!
Anyway, last year one of the girls DID sit it out on her own. Being that it was my first time experiencing such a thing, I was thrilled to discover that the eggs were beginning to hatch. While I was disappointed in Rudy the rooster for not playing a more parental role, I found the hen to be an excellent mother. So ferocious was she in protecting the eggs that she even attacked our pit bull…and won! It’s something we’re not supposed to talk about, but it really paints the picture of motherly devotion.
The first chic finally emerged from the warm cocoon of his egg. What a struggle he endured and he certainly looked worse for wear. Scrawny, soaked, and exhausted, he was one of the cutest things we’d ever seen. Our excitement was near bubbling over as we painfully awaited the hatching of the remaining 10 eggs. And waited, and waited. And…nothing. One egg out of 11 hatched and the rest were duds. But we weren’t disappointed at all! We’d just witnessed the hatching of the very first chic at Carey On Farm and we were elated! Cheers rang out through the barnyard and we set up chairs just so as to watch the fascinating relationship between hen and chic. It was like a miracle! That is until I realized I had to do something with the 10 remaining duds.
This was something I hadn’t been prepared to face (I am a newby after all) and the thought of discovering a partially developed chic fetus was a tad more than I could bare. I left them with the hen a few more days but after awhile it was obvious that I had to get rid of them. I thought burying them was a great idea. We even had a respectful memorial in their honor. A few tears were shed at the thought of what might have been, and we built a headstone made of rocks and twigs to mark their final resting place. It didn’t occur to me until the dog dug them up and rolled in them that we had held a funeral for 10 rotten eggs that had never been fertilized in the first place, but I kept that joke from the boys.
It’s been almost a year since our first chic hatched and I still haven’t gotten the smell completely out of the dog, but the hens are getting broody once again, and with spring stirs new life. With my head in my hands I can only wonder what the year ahead might bring. Besides baby chics, of course.

Farm Life’s A Hard Life

I am a farming vegetarian. There, it’s out. Before you give me a hard time, stop and imagine what it’s like for me. I’m basically a poop scooping, piglet delivering, egg collecting hypocrite. And that only begins the long list of ways you’ll find me lacking. I suck at a myriad of activities that other women find as simple as breathing. A comprehensive list of said sucking is as follows. Let us begin:

* COOKING
As a farm wife, my culinary pallet is cultured to the extreme. I take great pride in the fact that I have mastered the art of boiling the tenderest, juiciest and most succulent hot dogs west of the rockies. However, don’t envy me too much as I’m more of a master manipulator than 5 star chef. Should you find yourself in a bind when company arrives unexpectedly,take a page from my book with this brilliant cooking scheme, and watch the looks of awe and wonder on your guests faces. Go to the freezer and take a huge amount of time rummaging around in there. Mutter something under your breath like ” well, where is it? I know I saw it in here this morning! ” You may have to use an unnaturally loud voice for that part so your husband (who CAN cook) can hear you over the general conversation. Keep in mind that you’re only trying to create the illusion that you know what you’re doing and have a large stock of deodorant on hand for the awkward moments. I don’t know about you, but I sweat when I’m nervous. Anyway, if he was worth marrying at all he’ll catch the subtle look of wild desperation you throw at him eventually although your company may wonder where you picked up that strange facial tick. When he finally comes to your aid, position the freezer door in such a way so you’re not overheard. I will remind you that while your guests can’t see your face or hear what you’re saying, they CAN observe any foot stomping on your part, that in my opinion, is a must use tool in the kitchen. Shortly after you persuade your husband to save you (never be above bribery. This is a key point people! ) you remove yourself from behind the freezer door and make a HUGE show of pouring the wine. People tend to forget everything if you get them drunk enough.

*CLEANING
I’m always flabbergasted when I walk into other people’s homes. Do their floors ALWAYS shine like that? And is that really the faint aroma of apple blossom burst wafting from the bathroom? My bathroom smells like something burst in there too, you know, so there! Why is it that the day you decide to bring your poopy bottomed chicken into the house for a bath is the same day your in laws drop by for a visit? It’s also the same day your dog vomited on the floor, someone spilled milk down the cabinet and the weekend’s dishes are piled to the ceiling. Oh yeah, that’s everyday. Enough said.

*PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING WOMANLY
Yep. In a nutshell. I am the farthest thing from society’s view of housewife that ever was. Guilty as charged. But here’s the thing: I don’t care! My soufflé may flop, and my house probably smells bad (I’m not sure of this as I think I’m just used to the stench) but I can do lot’s of other stuff. I can throw 20 tons of hay just as well as any man, I can make it through a difficult farrowing singlehandedly, and I’ve taught my boys to believe in themselves no matter what society has to say. I work hard, love hard and play hard. While I’m certainly not the epitome of the word “farmwife,” I think I’m doing alright. And that’s all that matters.

The Barn. A Retrospective.

Am I the only one who finds solace in the warm comforts of a barn? There’s something about the way the sun filters through the roof slats that makes the magic waltz of dust motes seem another world entirely. True, some would turn their noses at the smell, but for those I feel pity. What a shame it must be to let a trifle thing such as acres of shit stop one from seeking the other, less smelly treasures that farms, and particularly barns have to offer. In fact, my barn is a place I find it hard to stay out of. During farrowing season, I’ve even been found curled up next to the warmth of a half ton hog, blatantly snoring, and my husband takes a great deal of offense to this. Maybe that’s the point? Just kidding. (I’m not really.)
Anyway, I think my problem is that I genuinely prefer the company of animals to that of people. No offense. (Really. Most of my friends have been categorized as at LEAST 1/8 animal, which explains everything.)
While others find the crow of the rooster intensely annoying, I find just the opposite. When the angry, intimidating, red numbers of the bedside clock smugly announce that I am the absolute last human alive on the face of the planet and that I will forever be ensconced in the prison that is my mind, my dear friend Rudy (the rooster) proves 3am wrong with his own announcement. I am not alone. The haunting, lonely cry of my rooster in the middle of the night just may be the most pasifying sound I’ve ever heard. As long as the cock is singing it’s midnight melody, everything is taken care of. (Thought I’d pass up that opportunity, didn’t you?)
And it’s not just the feathered fowl that make me feel at home. When the world has let you down, and “assholes” is the only word that accurately describes the human race, my advice is simple. Go and sing to your swine. They truly appreciate it, even if no one else does.
It is a liberating feeling to gain the trust of an animal that, frankly, could easily take your life. Even my boys are too grown up now to show the elation that my presence creates in the barnyard. Nowhere else am I that joyously received. ( Cocks excluded, of course. )
A warm muzzle nuzzle in the neck is just the thing to remedy a bad case of the winter blues.
So, when life gives you a swift kick, limp outside to the healing sanctuary of your barn. Take a book with you, a cup of tea perhaps. Snuggle into the warm embrace of the hay pile and take a deep breath in (through your nose. I dare you.)