The official song for this post: Big Time by Peter Gabriel. (I heart Peter Gabriel.)
So, I have discovered that our little piggies are no longer little piggies anymore.
I know, brilliant observation, little pigs occasionally grow up to be big pigs, but it’s the rate at which they grow up to be big pigs that is ridiculous. Day after day they continue to be small and cute, all ears and endearing curly tails and then one day you step into their pen to pour a bucket of whey into their slop pail and suddenly you’re on your back in the mud being trampled by 80 pound beasts with beady little eyes:
Those who have never raised pigs before might also be surprised to hear that pigs have full sets of very sharp teeth, and they’re not afraid to use ’em… like then you’re trying to refill their grain bin (good for pigs), but are also temporarily blocking their access to said grain bin (bad for pigs, offenders must be punished).
My advice to pig tenders: Utilize the element of surprise whenever possible, move fast, never turn your back on them, don’t be afraid to dump the entire bucket of soup right on their heads, and most importantly, be very, very sure you have turned off the electric fence before you swing your leg over.
I think that’s about the end of my pig wisdom.
That’ll do, North. That’ll do.