Erica Lucke Dean

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"Making the world a better place, one fluffy romance at a time."

jimmy crack corn and I don't care

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times. I'm a writer...not a farmer. And yet, no matter how many times I've stated (rationally, without tears or temper tantrums) that I would not be taking over "farmer" duties, I still find myself out there dealing with every pigtastrophe that comes along. So why am I surprised that on the eve of piggy's last supper I find myself aiding and abetting the resident farmer (also known as IDP around here)  as he reinforces the transport vehicle for the trip to the giant freezer in the sky? Who knows.

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I suppose I did sign up for this when I agreed to live on a working farm, didn't I? So I guess that's why I found myself at the grocery store at ten o'clock tonight, buying magic feed corn (more specifically, animal feed corn that seems to work like magic when trying to capture escaping pigs.) I wasn't happy about it, but I kept a smile frozen on my lips the whole time I searched the store for said feed corn.

Though, I'm fairly certain anyone in my immediate vicinity scattered, spreading like the red sea before Moses, as I wandered though the aisles, singing quietly to myself.

"Gimme crack corn, or I'll hit you with my cart...gimme crack corn or I'll hit you with my cart..."

There were a few other verses, but I won't go there.  Not now that I've finally calmed down. Especially since we did manage to catch one of the pigs and got it safely loaded it into the trailer. Oh, and IDP finally got bit by one of the pigs--hard enough to leave a mark--so after all these months of complaining about the evil pigs, I feel vindicated.

We still need to capture one more in the morning so we can take two in this load. This is my least favorite part about living on a farm. It's right up there with having to bury a baby chick that died of natural causes in the night. But that's the cycle of life I guess. And I can at least sleep easy knowing the animals raised on my farm are given the best possible lives while they're here. I mean, how many chickens do you know that got to watch the Dancing with the Stars finale from the front porch? Not many, I'd guess.

Until the next time...I'll be chasing pigs one last time (hopefully!) 

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