Pig Olympics

In my house, I add the term “Olympics” to the name of any offending creature who causes me undue exertion.  We have Toddler Olympics when I shop with a tired toddler in a crowded store.  We have Cat Olympics when the cat dashes through our legs into the house from where she has been unceremoniously deposited in anticipation of our leaving the house for several hours. 

Sometimes Toddler and Cat Olympics are combined activities, like when both toddler and cat go missing and I find him with a pair of scissors attempting to remove cat whiskers.  Chicken Olympics occur when the chickens escape their fence and attack a garden full of new seedlings.  

This spring we have added a new sport: Pig Olympics.  Although I can manage the other three versions alone, I need help for Pig Olympics.  I hesitated to write about this pig’s difficulties because sometimes people don’t want to hear about the actual details of the raising of their food, but I decided that you all might be interested in this story and could gain an understanding of pig-keeping.  I only wish it had been videoed for your entertainment, but we could spare no camera operator.

On a lovely Sunday afternoon, after leaving the Ladies’ Tea hosted by my church, in which I sat with 80 other nicely dressed women while we sipped tea, ate goodies, and chatted, I went home, put on farming clothes, and visited the pigs.  I am willing to bet that no one else went from a tea party to a pig pasture.

For a week or two, I had noticed a raised spot on one of the pigs that seemed to be growing larger.  Other farmers told me it was an abscess and advised me to watch and wait, which I did, but it continued to grow larger and began to seem to cause him pain when it was touched.  It expanded from the size of a golf ball to the size of a tennis ball. Although he appeared to feel well, we decided it was time to lance the abscess to remove the pus and the source of infection.

After admonishing the children to stay in the house to avoid adding Toddler Olympics to Pig Olympics, my husband, Scott,  and I headed for the field with some rubbing alcohol, my sterilized dissection knife from college, and a rope.  

We lack any corral or other structures in which to restrain the pigs, and so Scott’s plan was to lasso the pig.  Yes, he used to be quite good at lassoing fence posts as a boy, and no, he hasn’t lassoed anything in 30 years.  

I won’t go into all the details, but we chased that pig around the field for probably 30 minutes trying to catch him.  They will come to food, and they will let me scratch them, but holding them down is another matter.  Unlike toddlers, chickens, or cats, they weigh 75 pounds or more and have no loose skin, long limbs, or fluffy tails I could grab.  I was also more than a little nervous about actually tackling a squealing, muddy, terrified creature with hooves.  I wished my boy was closer to 16 than 3: pig catching is the perfect occupation for a bunch of fearless teenage boys.

Scott did finally manage to lasso the pig, after avoiding, by some miracle, breaking an ankle by stumbling into a pig wallow.   I grabbed the dissection knife, wiped his skin with alcohol, and plunged the knife into the abscess.  (I will not go into the details of what came out, but the surgery was a success). 

I poured more alcohol onto the wound, and what I should have done was spray it with Blu-Kote, an antibacterial spray.  I didn’t plan that far ahead, so the pig went over and plopped down into the mud by the watering tank. 

I had a moment of fear that I had somehow mortally wounded the pig, but then I remembered that pigs don’t sweat and this pig was simply hot.  We rinsed him and his friends with water from the hose, congratulated ourselves on our veterinary skills, and went into the house where the children were quite impressed with Daddy’s ability to  lasso a pig. 

Over the next few days, I sprayed the pig with Blu-Kote, and was pleased to observe the abscess decreasing in size.  The pig decided we were friends again: I think he was somewhat relieved that I had ended or significantly reduced the pain from the tennis-ball sized abscess.  Pigs are tough creatures, and I believe he will be okay.