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| adaandanimals.blogspot.com/2006 |
Another batch of piglets were born, cute little black and
white Hampshire oinkers. Sow rejected
all eight of them, every single one. Not
much to do but to hand suckle them with nipples on soda bottles, while they
squealed in the large paper box by the washing machine.
So cute, my five year old sister Mary and I
held them, deciding on their names. Life
was good for them, giving us a warm glow within.
The box became sodden just in time for the eight to be
moved to their own pen. The brothers (Yes,
them. The Bastards.) were told to take a
strip of heavy fencing and construct a round enclosure, stake it down, attach
it to the tree, and make an opening to bring a five gallon buck of watery feed
to pour into the make-shift trough.
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| Just imagine the vertical fence support on the end snipped off... |
They took the 10 pm shift and I would take the 3 am
shift.
At 3 am, my alarm went off and so did I. Down the stairs, putting on the
wellies/rubber boots, mixing the feed with water, I dragged the heavy 10 gallon bucket to
the fence.
Hungry piglets squeal louder than one would think. And they also charged the opening where food would magically appear. What’ll I do? What’ll do?
They could get out!..OhwhatllIdo?
Managing to open the fence wire while carrying the bucket
was no easy feat. Sharp deep
cuts striped across my skinny eleven-year old arm, but I carried on dumping the bucket.
Closing the gate wasn’t easy, but then I could see that the fence wire had been snipped such that the sharp raw ends were left hanging out.
Closing the gate wasn’t easy, but then I could see that the fence wire had been snipped such that the sharp raw ends were left hanging out.
I ran into the house, crying while I heard laughter from upstairs. Turning on the kitchen light and dripping blood
along kitchen linoleum to the sink, I tried not to cry. But, I wasn't quiet enough.
Mom emerged from her room and gasped at the blood running
down my arm. Mom rarely swore, but she
let fly some good words as she cleaned and wrapped my arm. Sending me upstairs,
she said she’d “fix it”.
The next morning Dad "fixed it." He grabbed the two responsible criminals and dragged them
out to the pen, showing blood still visible on the sharp edges. They confessed. Dad whipped and whaled them, and hard. And then they
fixed the opening.
There was a degree of satisfaction to hear justice
administered, but a sorrow for I knew the punishment had hurt more than my arm.
The
Bastards.
p.s. I still have the deepest scar, on my left arm.
