vituperation

On Tuesday, June 30, the best cat we’ve ever owned managed to get out of the zapper fence and out of the back yard. He was killed under the oak tree in the front yard by a stray dead dog walking.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

“I already have to pee,” Robyn said. “Don’t stand around and talk for an hour.”

“I’m not the one who does the talking when we come up here,” I said. “You know that. He’s, um, garrulous.”

I slowed the truck and turned off the road onto a rocky dirt drive. As we bumped along through the hollow, I kept my eyes peeled for Egg, the pig man. We took the last pair to be processed a couple of weeks ago, and were here to pick up the next. Egg had called me the day before to let me know he had a couple trapped, ready to come to our place and grow into meat.

“Check it out, cows,” I said, and pointed down into the gully running alongside the road. A thin stream wandered through it, and a small herd of cattle stood knee deep in a pool about a hundred feet in front of us. As we approached, the cows got jumpy and ran as one up the bank and across the road in front of us.

“Somethin’s spookin’ the cows!” I cried, knowing Robyn would get the reference. She laughed.

We waited until all but one was across, a mean-looking steer that glared at us as we passed him. I thought for sure he was going to ram the truck but he didn’t. We passed a scary trailer where two chained dogs rushed the truck, barking furiously to let us know we weren’t welcome. Egg rents that trailer out to someone, and every time we visit I wonder who lives there, among all the animals.

Beyond the trailer was a small house, filled to the rafters with stored stuff. Egg told me the story about the house the last time we visited, but I forgot it. I think maybe it was his original house, before he moved up on the hill. A bony mare stood in the side yard of the house.

I caught sight of Egg then, in one of the many pens that lay in the field past the house. He looked up from what he was doing, and started toward us.

Egg’s place is a wonder to behold. There are animals everywhere: dogs, cats, guineas, chickens, cows, and pigs. Plenty of pigs. It’s obvious that Egg spends a lot of time down in the hollow with them. There are sheds everywhere, loaded down with things that look very interesting. I think I could spend a week down there, just taking it all in.

“My wife says she’s gonna leave me if I don’t clean up some of this junk,” Egg said after we exchanged greetings.

He looked around.

“Reckon I’ll miss her cookin’.”

We laughed, and while Egg and I moved the dog carrier from the back of our truck to the back of his, Robyn tried to make friends with some kittens.

“What sex are the pigs?” I asked Egg while we were loading the carrier.

“One’s a boy and one’s a girl.”

He pulled a small bottle of betadine from one pocket.

“I ain’t cut that boy yet, so we need to take care of that first. Guess you can hold ‘im while I cut ‘im.”

“Alright. Let me tell my wife, because I’m guessing she doesn’t want to be there for that.”

I went over and explained the situation to Robyn, and she agreed that she’d be happiest if she were elsewhere.

We laughed and headed for the pig yard, me in front to get the gate, Egg behind in his truck. Robyn followed behind slowly, busy with the camera.

I opened the gate, a sixteen-foot cattle panel held in place by a piece of wire, and Egg drove through. He told me to leave the gate open, and pulled over to a small cage sitting on the ground. Three little pigs milled around inside, two pink ones and one larger black one. A piece of scrap plywood covered the cage and kept them protected from the sun.

Egg bent and started fiddling with a piece of wire holding the cage door shut.

“I need you to get down here and get this little boy. I’m too stiff these days and don’t know if I could get back up once I got down there.”

I got on my hands and knees — the cage wasn’t even three feet tall — and got halfway into the cage. I looked for the pink pig with a pizzle and when I found him, I grabbed him by one of the back legs and pulled him out of the cage.

The pig was not too happy about the new state of affairs.

“Flip him over and put him on top of that plywood,” Egg said.

I did so.

“Now, hold him like this, so he’s still.”

He showed me what to do, and while I held the pig in place Egg reached into his pocket and retrieved a pocketknife. He unfolded a blade and set about finding the pig’s testicles, which hadn’t started protruding yet because the pig was so young. The young pig took great offense to Egg’s fondling his taint, and let the world know.

From off to my left, I heard a sound of animal outrage, and the thud of hooves on the cracked dirt. I looked up in time to see a 400 pound sow running through the barbed wire fence that separated us from the main pig yard. She raced toward us, bellowing, and we moved to get the cage between us and the baby pig’s mother.

“SOO!” Egg yelled. “Get outta here! SOO! SOO!”

The sow tried coming around one end of the cage, then the other. Egg stomped at her and she backed off just a little. The young pig, thankfully, fell silent.

I marveled to myself over how big her teats were, all huge and flappy.

Egg turned and opened the carrier sitting on the tailgate of the truck.

“Toss that little ‘un in there,” he said. “Then get up in the back of the truck.”

The baby pig squealed again when I lifted it, and the sow charged. Egg yelled and stomped, and held her at bay long enough for me to get the little pig in the carrier. She tried charging him again and when he rounded the end of the cage, he caught sight of a piece of wood and picked it up. He stepped toward her and swung, and she backed off before he could give her a whack.

“Stay up there,” he said. “Guess I’ll go get a dog.”

As Egg walked away, I noticed Robyn over by where the sow had run through the fence, watching. I told her she needed to get out, because I didn’t know what the sow would do. I figured she’d stay over by me and the babies, but you never know.

Or I never know, since fighting a raging sow is a new experience for me. I reflected on my situation as I stood there in the back of the truck watching the sow circle. Five years ago, if you’d asked me if I ever expected to be helping castrate a pig while his mother tried to kill me I would have laughed.

Egg returned with a small brown dog that got very excited when it caught sight of the sow. He ran to the gate and wriggled through a tiny opening, then lit out after the sow like his life depended on catching her. The sow snorted and made a beeline back through the barbed-wire fence.

“Sonny loves chasing pigs,” Egg said when he got back. “Don’t know how many times he’s saved me from being tore up by a sow.”

“What kind of dog is he?” I asked.

“A red heeler.”

We opened the carrier. I pulled the pig out and flipped him on his back on the tailgate. Egg resumed his quest for testicles. When he found the first one, he used one hand to pull the skin tight over it and with the other he made a quick swipe with the knife. The skin parted, revealing another sheath of gray tissue. There was a little blood, but not much.

The baby pig squealed, and an indignant little turd erupted from his butt. After all the pigs we’ve had, I have come to the conclusion that shitting is a defense mechanism for them.

When the baby squealed, the sow roared and charged through the fence again. She barreled at us, one thing on her mind.

Egg gave a sharp, short whistle.

“Sonny! Get ‘er!” he called.

The dog exploded from under the truck and headed right for the sow, who wheeled around and headed for the fence just as quickly as she’d come. Sonny stayed hot on her heels, nipping at her hindquarters.

I was blown away, and said so.

“I can’t tell you how many times that dog has kept me from gettin’ tore up,” Egg said. “Don’t know what I’d do without ‘im.”

He told me about Sonny’s heritage while he worked on the baby pig. He cut another slit between the its legs, but had trouble getting through the tougher gray layer underneath. After a few unsuccessful tries to cut through it (which didn’t bother the little pig at all, PETA people), he tried a new blade. The new blade parted that gray stuff like Moses working the Red Sea.

Egg worked the first testicle out through the slit, then grasped it and tugged. It came out jerkily, as the tube attached to it disconnected from whatever was holding it inside the pig and slid out like afterbirth. I knew from reading that he was going to do this, because you have to get the whole tube, but seeing it made my balls pull up inside me. Egg threw the testicle on the ground.

“There you go, Sonny, you deserve that,” he said.

Sonny agreed, and fell upon the ball.

Egg worked the second testicle out and removed it the same way. As he pulled, the pig jumped and Egg’s knife sliced across the back of my hand. It was so sharp it didn’t even hurt.

He finished up with the pig and sprayed the cuts with betadine, then I flipped the pig over and put it back into the carrier, trying not to think about how dirty that knife probably was. I crawled back into the cage and fetched the female pig to put in with her brother.

Back up by our truck, Egg and I made small talk while we moved the carrier over. He’s always a fount of information about animal husbandry, country life, and the people who come see him. Like us with the eggs, he has a lot of hispanic customers, and shared a tale about a carload who came up last weekend and processed two pigs for a little girl’s birthday party right there by where we were parked.

We ended up talking for ten or fifteen minutes. Well, mostly I just responded while Egg talked — but like I said, I enjoy the conversations because they’re interesting, entertaining, and full of information. Finally we wound it up and I joined Robyn in the truck.

“Sorry I got you with the knife,” Egg said.

“I don’t know if I’m the one who needs the apology,” I said with a grin, and tipped my head at the carrier in the back of the truck.

“Reckon that’s about right.”