pigs gone wild

I always knew it was a bad idea to get pigs. Ok, so maybe that's a lie. I didn't know.  But I had an idea. Sure they were cute little things with their pink bellies and flat noses, but something told me they weren't going to stay that way. Something told me from day one we were in over our heads. Five baby pigs would grow into five huge hogs. Five destructive baconators, hell bent on destroying fields, fences, and lives.

And then there were two... 

After the high tech redneck hubby (formerly known as IDP) and I took the first group of pigs to the giant freezer in the sky, I felt like a little weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Our pigs had enjoyed life to the fullest. I felt no guilt about that. And finally, I could breathe a little easier knowing we wouldn't have to chase the little troublemakers around anymore when they escaped. And let's face it they were experts at jail breaks.

Then, just a week before the last two would take their final ride, they staged one last prison break for old time's sake. 

What a dirty little piggy! 

We were gone for the day, of course... somehow pigs just know. But when we returned home later that afternoon, our neighbor quickly flagged us down to let us know our pigs had made a break for it not long after we set out on our day trip. They'd made passes through every yard from here to the end of the block, tearing up every inch of turf in their paths.  When they got bored with that, they headed for the road.

Sadly, it was another missed opportunity for my imaginary reality TV film crew.  From what I understand, it was like an episode of Pigs Gone Wild. I almost wish I'd been here to see the cars swerving and skidding into ditches. I can only imagine the sounds of horns blaring and people screaming as two giant pigs left a trail of destruction in their wake. But I have a really good imagination.

And I got to listen to my neighbor (code name: Mr. Kravitz) tell me all about it. I'm pretty sure they hate us.

And the pigs? Oh, they eventually came back, covered in mud from noses to tails. Let's just say a bag of cracked corn and an orange bucket can work miracles. As for me...I'm counting down the days until the last two pigs become bacon.  Sure, I'll miss them...a little. Life won't be nearly as exciting without them. But I think I can live without a little excitement for a change.

Until the next time...I'll be making room in the freezer. 

runaway joe strikes again

I met some of my neighbors this evening while I was combing the area, just after dark, on a  quest to find my vanishing Dogdini, Joey. As I cruised down the narrow country roads, I spotted a group of men standing outside chatting, so I stopped to show them Joey's picture and asked them to keep an eye out for my errant dog. Then with no hopes of finding him before bed, I headed home.

 "I didn't do anything...it was the cat!"

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when a giant truck pulled into my driveway with Joey riding in the front seat. It was deja vu all over again. It's been a while since I've had to organize search parties to find Joey, but I certainly haven't forgotten the process.

I once got a phone call from a neighbor telling me there was something that looked suspiciously like a reindeer running around on my roof. 

“A reindeer?”  I asked.

"A reindeer."

Well, minus the antlers. Apparently there was a random refugee from Christmas town running from the front of the house to the rear and then back again.  On the roof. Presumably looking for the chimney.  I didn’t pay much attention to the call (I figured Mrs. Jones had been dipping into the spiced rum a little early) until about an hour later when I noticed that my dog was missing. 

It suddenly dawned on me that in the dusky light of evening, my little pitbull mix could pass for one of Santa’s reindeer missing its horns.  So I ran outside like a flash, and looked up at the roofline of my house.  There, like Dasher without his sleigh was my little Joey, scampering around with a stick in his mouth—undoubtedly something he pulled out of one of the gutters. 

I shouted for him to "SIT!" and hauled ass up the stairs to my daughter's room where I discovered an open window (minus the screen) where Joey had obviously gone out.  I leaned out of the window and called until he came trotting to the window and climbed in, tail wagging a mile a minute. 

Joey has always had a knack for disappearing.  There was one night in particular when one of the girls heard him crying, but couldn’t find him.  She looked in the closets to see if he’d been locked in.  She looked outside her bedroom door to see if he was waiting to be let in.  She looked in her sister’s room, to see if he was trying to get out.  But he was nowhere to be found, so she went back to bed.  After a few more minutes she heard him cry again, and thought the sound was coming from her bathroom, so she opened the door, but he wasn’t in the bathroom. 

He was outside the bathroom window.  On the second story roof yet again.  Somehow he was trapped on the roof.  How long he was out there is anybody’s guess. 

So that brings us to tonight. Runaway Joe is sleeping soundly in the living room, exhausted after his latest, unsanctioned, adventure. I seriously need to get JoJack on that dog.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping soundly now that he's found. 

chasing bacon

Isn't Monday bad enough on it's own merits without tossing in a game of chase the bacon? And I'm not talking about a breakfast, or the newest thing in porn. I'm talking about five bad little piggies stampeding their way out of their fortress to run rampant in the yard...again.

I was busy working on interview questions at lunchtime, paying little attention to the goings on outside the window, but when my daughter came downstairs and looked out the window, her exclamation of, "Pigs!" had me on my feet and out the door in record time. ​

It took the two of us, and a bucket of feed to coax the pigs from the next yard over back into the pen. But within a few minutes, they were blissfully wallowing in their water trough again, and I was back to work on my interview.

I'd done it. I'd captured them. I'd secured them. All. By. Myself. I was officially a pig whisperer, and those same pigs were happily  locked up, doing whatever pigs do in the daytime.

And then they weren't. Happy that is. In fact, they were downright miserable.​

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening and the sun was heading down over the horizon when the pigs started to stir behind the gate. Their squeals carried into the house like the mournful cries of sea monsters or rodents of unusual size. I didn't know what they wanted, they'd already been fed twice. It was obvious they wanted something because the leader, Napoleon, was bashing his head against the gate in what appeared to be an attempt to break the latch.

It's funny how cute, seemingly sweet, pigs can so quickly morph into raging bulls when they band together with a common goal. That goal being escape. Even as I'd armed myself with a bucket of feed and a broken rake handle (hey, one can never be too prepared around pigs) they broke free and went on a rampage. ​

The first stop was the chicken's feed, where they decimated every bite, stomping on the empty feeder before (literally) heading for greener pastures. ​

I called out to the dogs. I don't know why I did it. It's not like the dogs have been much help to me in the past, where the pigs were concerned, but I was here alone and it gave me a false sense of security to have them near me.

Did I say false sense of security? Because my dogs rose to the occasion this time, running circles around the pigs and barking like junk yard dogs. My beloved Indiana Jones, Mastiff extraordinaire, took it upon himself to herd the wild and crazy party pigs around the property at top speeds, nipping at their...errr...bacon, as they went. ​

I felt like I was in a front row seat at the coliseum watching my mighty mastiff go up against a lion. The dog that was terrified of the pigs just a week ago was suddenly circling and attacking with vigor. He was not about to let these pigs out of his sight until they were back in their paddock.

"No, Indy!" I screamed as panic gripped me. It was a high speed bacon chase, but he was chasing them in the wrong direction. "Not toward the open road!" I ran behind them, still waving my broken rake and a handful of hot dog buns, being trailed by a group of chickens, just waiting for the bread to drop. ​(This is where the film crew would have come in handy.)

Somehow I managed to break the language barrier with Indy and he circled a small group of pigs around again, chasing them toward the pen. I couldn't keep up, but I watched, panting along behind them (chickens running behind me, still waiting for me to trip and drop the hot dog buns) as Indy clamped his teeth into the pig's rump pushing it forward until it ran directly into the former duck pen. ​

Holy crap! He did it!​

I don't know who was more surprised, me, the dog, or the pig. We had one locked up, and Indy went back out after the rest. Once he'd captured the leader, the others followed soon after, and as the sun finally set, blanketing the farm in darkness, all five pigs were back where they belonged, and my poor dog was exhausted. As the chickens feasted on buns.

The moral of the story? It's a dog eat pig world out there, and you pigs better not forget it! I guess it's all in a day's work on the crazy haunted farm, right?

Until the next time...I'll be taking a few Advil and a long ass nap!​

f#@%ing pigs!

​Another day, another pigtastrophe. It's about time we had a pig roast...if you know what I mean.

It's a quarter past eleven at night and I'm just now coming in from the yard where my hus...I mean, the IDP and I ran wire around the unfinished sections of the perimeter fence to contain the pigs.​ I came home a little past nine this evening to find three of the little porkers halfway down the driveway and the other two rounding the neighbor's house on the way to their front yard. Yes, the pigs have escaped again, and my premonitions of zombie pigs terrorizing the neighborhood were suddenly realized.

IDP wanted to shoot them, and he might have followed through with the threat if we had enough freezer space, which we decidedly do not. ​I can't say I blame him...while I was gone today, he spend several hours luring them back to their pen with the promise of tasty treats. Unfortunately for us, the smell of freshly cut grass in the lawnmower man...I mean, our next door neighbor's yard...was too much of a temptation. In a brilliant flash of genius, the IDP decided to mow our yard, hoping to at least keep the pigs grazing at home. It was a good idea, but it didn't work. It would seem even pigs think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.

I'm beginning to wish we'd stuck to chickens and ducks. And I would wager a guess I'm not the only one.​

Until the next time...I'll be preparing for the next jail break.​

that'll do pigs...

Day two of pig-gate. ​

After a long day (and night) of chasing pigs, we were sure we'd solved the problem, having trapped them in the duck pen, but in the morning we discovered how ingenious pigs really are. ​

We woke up to the sound of a rooster in distress. Chester was pissed off because the pigs had taken up residence under his perch behind the duck house.  I think my rooster is far too involved with his personal decorating schemes, but that's a post for another day. Today, we're going to revisit those pesky pigs.​

I've come to the conclusion that not only is control an unattainable illusion, but we are pitifully unprepared in the event of a zombie invasion. If I can't even defend my yard against a band of marauding pigs, ​how will I ever ​protect myself against zombies? 

Somehow, those pigs had squeezed through an opening built for a duck and proceeded file into the duck house and ram themselves against the door until they broke the latch, setting themselves free. How they knew there was a door on the other side that led to freedom, I may never know. But there they were, wandering the yard again, tearing up the grass...the plants...a garden hose...and a baby pool. They even devoured a week's worth of chicken feed before we discovered them.​

Again, I wish I'd had a film crew getting this down for the world to see. Watching my husband racing from one side of the yard to the other, in hot pursuit of pigs, is something I'll never forget. And I'm sure the look on my face when he told me to "run" after them, was priceless.

I do not run. Not in farm boots. Not on rough terrain. Not unless my life is in imminent danger. It's just not going to happen. Let's face it...it's a damn good thing I'm smart, because otherwise, I'd have been eaten by now.

Speaking of smart...I finally put my own plan in motion while others ​chased pigs around, and low and behold, the pigs were trapped. So yeah...we caught them all. And locked them back up. And fortified the perimeter of the duck...or rather...pig house. And a whole day later, they're still there.

For now. ​

Who knows what morning will bring.​

Until the next time...I'll be looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend.​