wee wee wee, all the way home

Okay, before you say anything, I know I'm a failure. I bailed on the A-Z challenge before I even reached G. And my excuse is weak, so I'm not even going to throw it out there. But I'm back with a farm update. And what an update it is too! 

We've talked about our impending spring pigs for months now. We went to pick them out a month ago, way before they were even weaned, and planned out our trip to pick them up weeks in advance. We had the dog crate at the ready and the electric fencing was up and tested.

Then when the day of the trip arrived, we were forced to throw down tarps in the back of the Kia and load them into the car sans crate (it was just an inch too wide to cram it into the back.) But hey, no problem, right? Where there's a will, there's a way. And nothing was going to come between us and our little piglets.

Piggies in the Kia Soul

Famous last words...

When we finally got them home and unloaded them from the car, all our careful planning went to shit. 

It was like a fairy tale gone wrong. Or a twisted Disney news headline. "Three little pigs vanish into the woods, never to be seen again." Okay, so they were seen. And seen again. They were just behind our pasture. But let's just say, capturing wayward piglets is about as easy as training a mastiff puppy not to drool. And if you've ever read my blog, you know mastiffs are champion droolers. So trust me when I say piglets are impossible to catch. 

My husband was inconsolable. And not just because we'd forked over a nice chunk of cash for said piggies just that afternoon, though there was that. But it was also the plans for the future that disappeared right along with their curled up tails. 

Fast forward to this afternoon...

Piggies from Heaven

My neighbor messaged me to say he'd seen our piggies, so I quickly dispatched the hubby and one of the girls for a reconnaissance mission. I told them not to come back without the pigs! Maybe I didn't say those exact words, but I did say to hurry. So off they went, armed with a tarp and a bag of bread. 

An hour later, they returned, pigless. Those slippery little bacon babies had gotten away . Hubby was dejected and sad. And very possibly covered in poison ivy, again. But he vowed to set a trap the next day.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

No trap would be set, because no sooner had we settled in to watch TV this evening when hubby spied three little pigs peering through our gate. They'd wandered right up and strolled on through. (So that's a total exaggeration, we had to corral them toward the open gate, but it was oddly simple given the prior experiences.) 

Lola and the piggies

And so my happy ending includes three frolicking, well fed little piggies playing tag with the mastiff puppy in my back yard. I can't wait to see where this leads to...

Until the next time... I'll be feeding pigs again!

cock-a-doodle don't

Remember Crockpot Roy? The rooster that decided my daughter was public enemy number one? Yeah, he's still alive. I'd like to say he's playing it cool these days, and I guess in some small way, he is. He didn't try to attack Alexa when she came home last night, but then again, he was sleeping. And about that? He sleeps less than I do. And when he's not sleeping, all nineteen...twenty hours of the day and night, he's crowing. At the top of his lungs. Cock-a-freaking-doodle do.

He has officially surpassed Clooney as the most annoying rooster of the decade. He doesn't just crow, either. He likes to do a duet with Siegfried, the other adult rooster in residence. They start their show at four am, on the dot. And like a rousing rendition of dueling banjos, or Lambchop's song that never ends, they keep going long after the sunrise. In fact, they keep going past lunch, on through dinner, and don't stop until it's lights out for chickens. And those blissful few hours when Crockpot Roy and his buddy Ziggy are sleeping? Farmyard gold.

I guess that's just one of the many perks of living on a farm. Or being a judge on American Idol. You get stuck listening to the ear-numbing sounds coming out of good intentioned roosters, preening for attention.  But unlike Simon Cowell, I can actually serve mine for dinner.

Hear that Roy? Keep it up and you'll be auditioning for Crockpot factor.  The marinated edition.

Until the next time...I'll be grabbing what sleep I can before the next show. 

Indiana Jones and the temple of turkey

"Listen up, turkey...if you don't run, I can't chase you..." 

I watched my dog follow the turkeys around the yard today. It's a slow speed chase through the underbrush, over the porch, and around the house. He never catches them, and you can tell this is by design. He just wants to keep them in his sights. If they run, he runs. If they walk, he walks. If they stop, he nudges them to get them to run again. It's fun to watch. But it makes me wonder what Indy's motives really are.

Is he just enjoying a little playtime with turkeys? Or is he thinking of the future. Is he aware of their true purpose in life? Can he puzzle out the reason they're here? After all, the turkeys of today are tomorrow's leftovers, right?

One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong. 

When the turkeys are out, Indy can be found in their midst, and when they're in their pen, he can be found napping at the entrance, waiting for them to come out again. In the end, I think he's just having a grand adventure. The chickens have become boring--yesterday's news. The turkeys are new and exciting, and they make weird noises. And dogs love things that run around and make noises. Indy practically worships the ground they walk on.

Like he's worshiping at the temple of turkey. I'll be interesting to see what happens as the birds grow up.

Until the next time...I'll leave you with more pictures of Indy and the turkeys.

the scoop

Do you remember that scene in Toy Story when Buzz and Woody got stuck in the game with the little aliens and the claw? I'll refresh your memory here... 

So, back to my story.

I was reminded of this scene today, when I went out to feed the turkeys . We've been allowing them to roam a little during the day. You know, enjoy the scenery, forage for bugs, bask in the sunshine.

"Ahhh...the scoop!" 

But when I stepped off the porch at lunchtime carrying the giant green scoop filled with turkey feed, they all came flocking to me like bugs to a windshield. I was inundated by turkeys squawking and flapping wings until they all sat at my feet and got quiet, each of them gaping up at me with their homely little faces, in apparent awe of the green scoop. It immediately made me think of those little green aliens in Toy Story.

Especially after I poured out the food and instead of rushing to their meal, they continued to wonder at the empty plastic receptacle. I could almost hear them, "Ahhhh, the scoop. The scoop is our master."

But that's just crazy. Turkeys can't talk, right? 

Until the next time...I'll be listening to talking turkeys. 

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. 

who put the B in BLT?

How many times have you eaten a ham sandwich, or bacon and eggs, and thought about where your food came from? And I don't mean your refrigerator, your freezer, or the nearest fast food restaurant.

I'll admit, before I moved to the farm, I rarely did. I ran through the drive-thru at McDonald's and ordered my food without a care in the world (other than making sure they didn't put pickles on my burger.) But after raising five piglets up to market size, I see things from a totally different perspective.

Actually, it was when our chickens laid their first egg. That egg represented food raised right on my farm. It was the best egg I'd ever tasted. And anyone who's ever eaten truly farm fresh eggs will likely agree with me. And I'm not talking about those grocery store packaged eggs claiming to be cage free or free range. Don't believe the hype. Those chickens aren't really free.

Free range chickens

Our chickens roam free.  Just ask my neighbors. My hens are frequently found standing on their front porch, knocking on the door, looking for bread handouts, like the little beggars they are.  Other than stale bread from next door, they eat grass, and bugs, and whatever else chickens eat in the wild. We give them a little grain to supplement (and to ensure they keep coming home) but they mostly forage for their food. 

It's the same with the pigs. They forage in the field, living the good life. Oh, we give them food too--they've practically eaten everything there was in the pasture--but it's always healthy food. No candy for our pigs. I'm not sharing my chocolate with anyone.   

See pig run

Unlike factory farms where the animals are kept confined on concrete, our animals have free rein within the confines of the fence. And they've all been known to roam outside the lines.   Basically, they're treated like family...sort of.  I mean, I'm not in the practice of eating my family. And I'll admit, when we cooked up our first rooster, Clooney, I felt like I was on that TV show, Fear Factor. It was like I was eating a friend, or something. But by the time we had Napoleon for dinner, I was over it. He was the best pork roast I'd ever eaten.

So, I'm sure you're wondering what I'd say to the question, "How can you eat your pets?" 

My answer is simple. I would never eat my pets. My dog is like my child, for crying out loud. In fact, my kids would probably say I like the dog better. It's not true. Well, mostly not true. Ok, it might be a little true. But that's only because the dog is home and the kids have their own lives. And the dog never talks back. Or asks for money.  Or steals my last root beer.

As for the pigs? They drew first blood when they tried to eat me. After that, all bets were off.

Until the next time...I'll be fattening up the last two pigs. 

bittersweet bacon

Back in December when it was suggested we add a few piglets to the farm, I remember thinking, "Oh, piggies! How cute." And boy were they cute. Five little bundles of pink. Each of them just a tad bigger than a bag of potatoes, but much more wiggly. I had no idea how much trouble those adorable little buggers would be.  

And yet, all these months later, suddenly the destruction of each house built for them (the house of straw, the house of sticks, the proverbial house of bricks) the divots left in the yard--both here and at the neighbor's house--during their frequent escapes, and the fear coursing through my body each time I had to step inside their pen to feed them, all seem like mere bumps in the road. I've enjoyed their odd brand of company, their sweet faces--even as they were smeared with mud and muck--and even their horrible smells...ok, so maybe not the smells.  But I'll surely miss them once they're all, well and truly, gone.

Yesterday, the IDP and I went to pick up the pigs we'd dropped off on Monday. On this trip, they rode, not in the back of a trailer, but wrapped in small packages and tucked into boxes. There were no more of the barking sounds I had no idea pigs made. No more bumping me with their flat noses. No more trying to eat me. No, this time, they were on their way to being someone else's dinner, and as much as I told myself I wouldn't be sad, I was. No matter how hard I tried to dislike them, in the end, they were pretty sweet piggies (Hey, I'm being sincere here, not referring to their delicious taste.)

But sadness aside, this was our first major sale on the Leaning Duck Farm. Though we ended up breaking even when you factor in the initial cost of purchasing the pigs, add in the food costs, and the actual processing costs at the end. But despite the "break even" cash outcome, we'll still end up with a year's worth of food in the freezer out of the deal, and a valuable lesson learned. We'll definitely do things differently next time.

Still, we ended up with very happy customers. People who have already told us they can't wait for the next thing we have to sell...turkeys for Thanksgiving...farm fresh eggs on a weekly basis...goat's milk in the future. And more pigs. So as crazy as life was with pigs around, I guess we're going to do it all again.  

But not yet. I think I need to rest for just a little while. Being a farmer is serious business. 

Until the next time...I'll be working on my next book. 

pigs, pullets and pumpkin seeds

We've just passed the halfway mark in July, which also marks the halfway point for summer, meaning not just July, but all of summer is half gone. But worse than that, I've missed another pumpkin planting deadline.

For the countless year in a row, I've forgotten to plant the pumpkin seeds. Just like the Christmas cards I buy each November--then write out and address but never mail--I've stocked up on pumpkin seeds, yet again, that will never find their way into the dirt. Which means I will be buying my pumpkins from the farmers market again, instead of watching my very own seeds grow into mighty pumpkins before my eyes.  

I have just one thing to say about that...crap.  

I've lost track of how many years I've wanted to plant my own pumpkins. Ever since the year a rotting jack-o-lantern ended up in the compost heap and we discovered an entire pumpkin patch growing in the back yard. Totally in the wrong season, I might add.

I was sure I would have a proper pumpkin patch once we moved to the farm. I had my rows of seeds lined up on the counter, just waiting for someone to dig me a hole. Oh, I know what you're thinking, "go dig your own hole," right? But it doesn't take a genius to realize I'm not cut out for digging holes or preparing planting beds. I'm more of a  director . I'm the one who says, "no, a little more to the left, honey. That's it! Now back to the right...just a little more." Then I drop the seeds in the hole and push the dirt back over them. I'm really good at pouring stuff on the ground. Just ask the chickens. I'm their favorite feeder. Even the little pullets (young hens for you non-farm people out there) follow me around outside. They know I'm good at dumping the grain on the ground, but when it comes to serious farm stuff, it's time to call for the hus...I mean, the IDP.

Of course, even the virile IDP needs help from time to time. Just this weekend, I assisted in building the TCU (transport containment unit) to take the first two pigs to the giant freezer in the sky. I did an excellent job holding the wood panels while he screwed them together then secured them to the flatbed trailer. I even made design suggestions. Just between us, I had way better ideas, but you know men, you have to make them think it was their idea...shhhh.  

But when it comes to planting, I'm going to defer totally to him. That way, when it all goes to shit, it wasn't my idea. Speaking of shit...I may just dump the damn seeds in the pig pen. There's plenty of fertilizer in there. In fact, I'll bet pumpkins would grow like weeds in there. And the worst thing that could happen is nothing happens. Who knows, I might even end up with super-pumpkins. I could win a ribbon at the fair or something.

Or I could be stuck with the stinkiest pumpkins in Georgia. But at least I'd have pumpkins! 

Until the next time...I'll be lining up my seeds for planting day.

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. 

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.

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!) 

a tribute in pigtures

Well, the time has come. After seven months of adventures with our little piggies, their time with us has come to an end. First thing Monday morning, the trailer will be hitched up and the piggies will take their final bow. I'll admit, I'm a little sad to say goodbye, but at least I know they had a good life while they were here.

I really have no words to say today, so I decided to say it all in pictures.  Enjoy!

The Leaning Duck Farm homestead

Five little piggies cried wee wee wee, all the way home. 

Getting used to their new home

Tasty treats! 

Smile pretty for the camera! 

Piggies are getting bigger every day

Give us a big kiss

This little piggy goes to market

And to think, it all started with a few chickens

Well, I hope you enjoyed this week's photo blog. I know I enjoyed playing with the effects on my camera to take the pictures.  

Until the next time...I'll be saying goodbye to my piggies. 

to blog is human

Confession time.

Sometimes I share too much. I know. My elusive husband is forever telling me I have a terminal case of TMI syndrome. It's true. The world probably knows my scheduled PMS episodes better than I do. And my desire to share with the entire world is what prompted my husband to forbid me to share any information about him, thereby sparking my new relationship with the imaginary dead president, or IDP for short.

But deep down, I don't care. I like blogging. I like sharing. I like connecting with people on a deeper level and letting my hair (and my inhibitions) down. Well, in a strictly platonic way, of course. But this is who I am.

Blog girl.

Yes, blog girl can handle just about any situation thrown at her with grace and diplomacy.  I may be destined to trip over chainsaws, loose rocks, and air on a daily basis. And ok, I might be forbidden to play with fire or boil eggs without adult supervision, but I'm more than capable of dodging real life situations to make up way more exciting pretend ones instead. Whether it's marauding pigs, the plagues of Egypt, or evil garden gnomes, you're likely to find me right in the thick of it...possibly face down after tripping over my own shoelaces. But I'm out there. Sharing with the world. Holding nothing back!

Except the stuff I'm not allowed to talk about. But you didn't want to know about that stuff anyway.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my next adventure! 

float like a butterfly, perch like a chicken

Ok, so Ali actually said, "...float like a butterfly and sting like a bee..." but since I'm not writing a post about bees, I figured my edit was appropriate. As usual, I'm writing about chickens. But it's not the typical..."aren't they cute sitting on the sofa watching the vegetarian cooking show?" No, this time I'm tackling something a bit more serious.

Chicken on chicken violence. 

That's right, my sweet little chickens have turned into scrappers. And why is that? Simple. The resident farmer (you know...IDP?) took away the table they were roosting on because he didn't want them sitting in the kitchen window anymore. 

The problem is they didn't get the memo--or maybe they just couldn't read it--but either way, they weren't giving up the primo spot with the kitchen view. Even after one of them gave up and settled on sleeping outside my bathroom window, that still left seven chickens to squeeze on two narrow kitchen window sills, with no table for the overflow.

I stood there, watching chickens pecking chickens, knocking them, one by one, off the window until I couldn't take it anymore. But since I was forbidden to bring back the table, I was forced to improvise.

And this is why I have a row of chickens sleeping on two saw horses outside my kitchen window. And one chicken perched on the front porch bench. And one outside my bathroom window. This doesn't even count the chickens that go the traditional route and perch in the coops, or on the back of the pigs. (Yes, I have a rooster that sleeps on one of the pigs.)

What can I say? What my chickens lack in sense, they make up in creativity! But would you expect any thing less? 

Until the next time...I'll be watching the turkeys perch on the water bottles and the feeders in their baby pen. 

rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

Yeah, I know...I totally skipped the blog yesterday. It's not like me, and yet, I've been caught doing just that a whole lot lately. It's really not intentional. Ok, so maybe a little intentional. Life gets busy, and stuff happens, and there are coppertones ALL OVER the place. (See Stephen's guest post from yesterday if you don't get the joke.) 

Basically, I'm a serial procrastinator. I told my hus...I mean, the IDP...that if I took a day off from blogging, I'd never get back to the every day habit. And I was right. Not that I'm happy to be right, in this particular case.  But there is some precedence for this. That time he told me to just give my diet a break and allow myself to cheat now and then, well, that blew my diet right out of the water. Why? Because one must learn to listen to their own gut. Or maybe that's just me. I need to listen to my own gut and stop being led astray by imaginary dead presidents with no stake in my dilemmas.

So, here I am, trying to make up for that missed day by writing something epic, and all I end up with is a bitch session about how it's not my fault I procrastinate (and yeah, I know it totally is, but where's the fun in taking all the blame?)

I blame the chicken sitting outside my bathroom window like a...a...peeping Tom. Wait...this is a peeping tom...tom turkey that is. 

Baby Tom, peeping at me.

This is a chicken peeping through the bathroom window.

Peeping Hen.

Until the next time...I'll be posting another guest post...cuz, it's actually time for one. 

spring is for babies

Sometimes I forget I live on a farm. Oh sure, I have chickens wandering in the back door on an almost daily basis, pigs eyeing me like a fresh baked pie, hay dust in the backseat of my car, and the assorted smells of a working farm wafting through the air...but yeah, sometimes I still forget. Then something miraculous happens that reminds me why I moved here.  And how much I love it.

Saturday morning the hubby and I headed out to the coop to collect the daily eggs and roust the brooding hen out to eat before her chicks were due.  Hubby opened the door and yelled, "Oh no!" He said our mama chicken had been taken, likely by a fox, and all that was left of her eggs were the shells.

I nearly cried on the spot. I'd been so proud of our chicken for being such a good mama, raising her three little ones over the winter, then sitting on a new clutch of eggs this spring. ​I was heartbroken that she was gone.

And then my hubby yelled, "There she is! And she has babies with her!"​

Our little mama was coming around the back of the pig pen, eight fuzzy chicks trailing behind her as they made their way around the yard. It was the most exciting thing I'd seen in ages. ​Five little black chicks and three yellow. Babies...born right here on the farm.

We moved quickly to collect the chicks and their mama before any harm could befall them--the yard is a dangerous place for tiny babies--setting them up in a temporary pen until we have the permanent pen finished. And then I just sat back to observe. The miracle of life is an exciting thing to behold.

Until the next time...I'll be chick watching!​

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.​

a day in pictures

Marauding pigs. Obnoxious chickens. Haunted attics. Scary basements. This is what I deal with on a daily basis at the farm. Sometimes I'm at a loss for words to explain it, so I figured a picture was worth a few hundred words...right?  ​

The scary barn at the haunted farm...​

From adorable little piglets...​

Ginormous pigs will grow!​

I see you!​

I'm still watching you!

From little chicks...a mother hen will grow.​

From little puppies...​

Giant ponies grow...

From a barren pasture...a fertile farm will grow.

Ok, so I might have cheated today. Not much to say, but I was asked to share more pictures, so here you go! I hope you enjoyed it. ​

Until the next time...I'll be back to writing!​

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.​

the tale of the dimwitted rooster

​I've never been one of those parents who thinks their children are without flaws. Despite their natural born intelligence, I frequently find myself gaping with astonishment at their foolish choices. But as often as they make mistakes, I see progress. I see them growing into mature, responsible adults...and I might even live to see the day they actually reach that goal.

This is the major difference between human children and beloved pets. ​

My dog is like a giant toddler who will never grow beyond his three year old mentality. He knows at least a hundred words, cheese and carrots being two of his favorites, but he'll never have a job. Never move out and live on his own. Never speak more than the rudimentary vocalizations that sound a whole lot like, "Momma." But as simplistic as he is, I love my dog.

My rooster is another story.​

Chester A. Rooster. The name seemed to fit when we gave it to him. He was already grown when we brought him home, but we had high hopes for him, nonetheless. And truly, as roosters go, he hasn't been a bad one. He managed to fertilize the eggs that hatched in January, giving us three lovely chickens to add to our flock. But beyond that, he's the dumbest bird I've ever laid eyes on. ​

This crazy bird clucks like a hen. All day long. He mimics the hens in their clucking as if he's one of the girls. I'm almost embarrassed for him. If we had other roosters, he would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the bunch. I mean, he does know how to crow, but he rarely does. And unlike the last rooster we had, he doesn't cock a doodle do at all hours of the day or night. That simple fact, and his obvious fertility, are the only things saving him from the chopping block. ​Now he's managed to figure out how to escape from the fenced area, but can't figure out how to get back in. He has all of the remaining chickens roosting with him outside the containment area at night, where the garden gnome/fox can get them. I only hope the fox is fooled into thinking they're all inside the fence.

I guess the moral of the story is don't kill your roosters before the replacement has been fully vetted. The last rooster had his issues, but he was a bad ass chicken that could hold his own in a fight. Not the chicken shit rooster we have now that's afraid of his own shadow, and prances around the yard like...like Big Bird from Sesame Street. ​

Ah...such is life on the farm.​

Until the next time...I'll be watching for missing chickens.​