“We can’t live on a farm without pigs,” my husband says in his usual enthusiastic way, having spent weeks reading books on pig rearing. I am a little less enthusiastic about the prospect of yet more mouths to feed and more pens to clear out particularly given he is away much of the time. However, with the sty currently lying dormant and the children pestering me daily I finally submit and agree to two weaners joining our merry brood.
We begin preparing the five star luxury accommodation for our new arrivals in the pigsty beside the henhouse. “At least they’ve got the hens to talk to at night,” says the three year old. We decide that we would buy one of the pigs and a friend known as ‘Capable Karen’ would buy the other. Capable Karen rears lambs, owns ponies and confidently picks up chickens by their feet, un-phased by flapping feathers. In summary she is efficient on the farm and totally in tune with rural living. Most importantly she knows about pigs. We arrive at a nearby farm with my daughter wearing a pair of pink ballet pumps that are shortly immersed in farmyard mud. The friendly farmer asks us which ones we would like. We agree to whichever girls he can catch. This was no easy task. Unfortunately, I am manning the gate during this whole squealing episode and as a group of pigs come running towards me, I step back allowing the gate to swing open and a couple of them to escape. They scatter across the farmyard in all directions.
We sprint after them trying to herd them back to the pen. But the little Babes are having none of it and begin trotting off down the lane towards the road. Capable Karen, her daughter and the farmer efficiently herd. Meanwhile my daughter, her pink pumps and I make feeble attempts to catch them, knowing full well that if they come anywhere near us, we would be making a mad dash for the road instead.
Finally, we get our two weaners safely into the back of the horsebox and the farmer enthusiastically waves us off delighted to see the back of us. We return home exhausted and I feel distinctly nervous about what we have let ourselves in for. That evening my husband arrives home and excitedly runs out to the pigsty. Staring at the two small pigs with a broad smile across his face, he says, “Now we’re complete.”
