When we released the lions into my pasture of abundant grass this summer, my little herd of goats was distressed. In fact, they gave a whole new meaning to panic attack as they huddled along the fence line and refused comfort from their comfort food: animal cookies.
To my eyes, the recent additions to the pasture were tail-swishing, cud-chewing 350-pound calves. To my goats, they were tooth-baring, evil eyed, growling lions.
Whatever
The calves ignored the goats, but could the goats ignore the calves?
The milk goats, usually annoyingly docile and cuddly, suddenly decided that not only did calves look lions, so did I.
At milking time, they usually crowd at the door ready for their sweet feed and animal crackers. But the day the lions came, they cowered at the fence line.
Clear across the pasture from the barn. The fence line that was much closer to the lions than the barn.
Yay For Animal Crackers
I took animal crackers out to them, only to watch these lion-crazed goats run away from me. These were the same goats who made any pen repairs impossible because they stuck their noses in my face. Nose to nose. Really.
I bribed them with animal crackers, which must have looked mildly familiar, because one finally stretched her neck to sniff.
I snagged her collar, and we made a slow, stiff-legged trip to the barn. Away from the lions but she didn’t seem to notice that.
The two remaining milkers fled to the far corner, but one goat followed me: the only one who wasn’t yet being milked. It made me wonder if producing milk was related to mental collapse.
Their Mental Collapse
The one who followed got her cookies just for being smart.
I thought the milkers would relax once the first goat got her turn at the sweet feed. They were usually jealous creatures. But, no, that day I had to lure in the second one.
The third one seemed more relaxed. But remember that these goats thought a calf was a lion, so what she seemed to be was definitely not what she was.
I brought a bucket of sweet feed for her plus an abundance of animal crackers.
Bribery Worked A Little
She was happy to eat sweet feed, but it took three tries before I snagged her collar. I had sweet memories of this girl following me anywhere. Pre-lion.
We got halfway across the pasture (remember this is away from the lions) when she decided that to escape. She reared into the air and twisted her body.
I held her collar in one hand and a bucket half-full of sweet feed in the other.
When she reared, I had a thought:
Ugh. I’m going to get grass stains on my best jeans.
And, as my feet tangled and the ground was approaching, I had another thought:
Do NOT let go of this collar.
Beware Of The Jungle
The abundant grass served as a soft pillow for my landing. I got to my feet and here’s my report: I did not let go of the collar and I didn’t even have bruises the next day.
The lions have now turned into calves, and my goats will condescend to eating animal cookies. All is well in the jungle.
I was making a quick trip to the next town and came upon this train stopped on the tracks. The vivid colors drew me in and I pulled over to shoot a few quick pictures before it pulled away again.
What’s new on the farm? I’m glad you asked. Well, pretend you asked.
Last week a pig bit my hand, apparently because my hand looked just like the cheap animal cookies I was feeding the goats.
These are the Bacon3’s that we’ve discussed before. Their goal in life is to eat. That they have plenty of food in front of them all the time doesn’t convince them they aren’t about to see their ribs poking out in starvation.
Too much is never enough.
I wanted to attribute that quote to the proper owner, but it seems to be well-used in song lyrics, book titles, and blog posts.
Let’s just call it the motto of the Bacon3 and move on.
The goats love animal cookies. When I wave a handful of these bland little cookies in the air, goats run to me. Sprint like a wolf is on their tails. It’s like crack cocaine for them, except maybe a little less hallucinogenic, although the jury may be out on that. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
Once my son and I raised rabbits. We had a special treat we’d give them every day, and they’d throw themselves against their cage door like zombies in the apocalypse trying to get to the living. I wasn’t sure we’d get our hand back if we actually opened the door.
Distraction work for rabbits because their brains are smaller than an acorn. They threw themselves at the fresh grass hay, too, so that we could put their cocaine in their treat dish while they were devouring the hay.*
The Bacon3 have bigger brains
Watching the goats get cookies while the Bacon3 got nothing did not suit the pigs. Goats are cute while pigs are, well, pigs. I’ll bet Hollywood could record their snorting, slow it down a little, and get a new sound for the monster from the black lagoon. That monster squeal surrounded me while I handed out treats to cute goats. I should have known better.
You know that commercial with the teenagers debating, on a dark and stormy night with a haunted house looming, if they should escape to the running vehicle or hide behind the swinging chain saws? Yeah, that kind of “I should have known better.”
I should have known better
I know enough to wear boots and jeans into the pigs’ pen. They are generally more rude than aggressive. Usually, they push their noses against my boots as though boots look like food, too.Or their cousins. Not sure on that one.
I forgot about my hand while I was handing out treats to the goats. I guess I forgot about the pigs, too.
Then I dropped a bookie. Big mistake. I leaned down to scoop it up. Hands. Cookies. Those apparently look identical to an allegedly-starving Bacon.
The chomp was faster than hummingbird wings, and then I had blood dripping down my hand.
Bacon1 earned new names immediately. Several.
I’d like to think he’d remember to stay away from me after my tantrum. But I do dream a lot when it comes to my pigs.
I Am Smarter…I Hope
Because I’m smarter than a pig (Are you challenging that thought?), I stopped the animal cookie feeding and returned to the house to deal with the pig bite.
The Bacons still imitate rabbits on a zombie attack, bashing their noses against their gate whenever I come near. Otherwise, they’re out in the pasture eating all the grass they can find. Clearly starving.
But their radar is up for the next time I come with cookies.
Or pumpkins from the garden.
Or fingers.
My hand wound has healing, although I am afraid I’ll have a scar. A pig-toothed, snout-shaped, snorty scar to help me remember the Bacon3s.
But those three? Forgetting them is like trying to forget the time your tire blew out, you ran off the road, ruined a wheel, and had to call for a tow truck which took four hours to arrive and you were late for your cousin’s wedding. You don’t forget.
But I’d rather forget. I really would.
*Absolutely no cocaine was ever fed to any of my animals. I wouldn’t even know where to find the stuff, since the feed store doesn’t stock it.
I didn’t notice the rug burn on my knee until I was ready for bed. Hmmm.
Couch potatoes don’t have these issues.
Couch Potatoes Don’t Have Those
I have old scars on my knees from that cruel and ancient practice of requiring girls to wear dresses to school. I may still be bitter about that rule.
This elementary girl couldn’t stop running and somehow my feet didn’t cooperate all the time. Crash. Another scraped knee. Another scar.
Couch potatoes don’t have those.
My high school hosted a girls’ football game to raise funds for something that I’ve forgotten. We played flag football. No tackling. Just powder puff style.
I remember running with the football tucked under my arm and getting hit so hard that my breath flew away as I hit the ground. I fumbled the ball too. So much for the flag.
I could barely walk at school the next day, what with the sore muscles and bruises.
Speaking of barely walking, I was tossed over the head of my horse one weekend when I was home from college. Gypsy was galloping, and I asked her to slow down. She stopped. Dime kind of stop.
And I went over her head. I was nineteen, but I walked around like a ninety-year-old for a few days.
As an adult, I mellowed into more gentle sports. Like softball. Cycling. Skiing.
Speaking of Softball
Speaking of softball, I once found my left foot trapped under the fence behind home plate. As the catcher, I had to retrieve any balls that got past me and went to the fence. I knew the opponent was steaming home from third base, so I hustled to the fence, planted my foot, and went under.
It took both coaches and an umpire to lift the stiff fence off my ankle. My team didn’t have another catcher, so I limped back to my position.
Couch potatoes don’t have to put up with that.
Memories of softball games came up recently over lunch with a friend. She perked up. She’d played softball, too.
“Do you still have your softball glove?”
“Of course. You?”
We planned to play catch just because we miss throwing a ball around. Feeling a little nostalgic and unfulfilled, maybe.
Couch potatoes don’t get those urges.
I was five months pregnant, downhill skis strapped to my feet and our four-year-old sitting on the chairlift seat beside me, when the lift died.
We had hoped for one more run down the slope. Instead, we hung for an hour before the crew started lowering people to the ground on ropes. I never told them I was pregnant. I didn’t have time for the panic.
Couch potatoes don’t have to swing on a chairlift with a little boy for an hour, keeping him calm and warm.
Why do I complicate my life so?
The Watch Panic
Recently I crawled inside an enclosed cage retrieving young roosters. I had to roll onto my side to turn around so I could crawl out. No problem. I dropped onto an elbow, scotched around, and headed for the cage door.
And I heard a wild beeping. Was someone calling me?
I glanced at my watch, affectionately called “Dick Tracy” by my sister. Well, maybe not affectionately, now that I think about it. My watch sometimes poaches calls from my phone, which she thinks is goofy.
This watch plays music, tracks my steps, and alerts me to texts and calls. It ought to cook meals too.
Back to my story. My watch was shrieking, gaining volume with the second. Almost the shaking in terror. I looked closer. It hovered over the 9-1-1 call, assuming I had fallen. I punched a button. No, I didn’t need 9-1-1.
My watch was stubborn. Was I sure I hadn’t fallen? Yeah, pretty sure.
Can you imagine explaining that to the deputies who would have had to respond? No, officer, really, I’m fine. I just planted my elbow in the rooster pen.
Yeah, rooster pen.
My watch panicked last winter when I had to knock the ice out of a rubber pan so I could put out more water for my ducks. I slammed the pan on the frozen ground and my watch immediately leaped to alert mode, ready to call the deputies again.
“I didn’t fall,” I told the Dick Tracy. “I didn’t even leave my feet.” So why I was talking to my watch? My sister hadn’t even called.
Couch potatoes don’t have these problems.
New Plan
I have a new plan for this year. I’m slowing down. It’s time.
But I have to run a 5K with my grandson. It’s his first and he’s only nine. How could I refuse?
I’m riding my bike five or six—OK, sometimes ten miles a day—because it’s a new bike and I have a new helmet. Can’t let those go to waste.
I’ve started lifting weights, too, to keep the kids happy. And those extra muscles handle the feed bags a lot better.
So you can see that I’ve slowed down. No more skinned knees or planted elbows.
My watch doesn’t hover in ready mode anymore. It probably thinks I’ve retired into couch potato mode.
Well, yeah, I did shut off its fall alarm.
Out of concern for the deputies.
A while back, I decided that a daily can of Mountain Dew consumed along with Mounds candy bars was not good for my health.
I go deep, don’t I?
So I’ve been exploring healthy eating. Everything from grass-fed beef to eggs from pasture-raised chickens. I planted a small vegetable garden and may even try composting.
So all these healthy choices could only lead to one thing, right?
Yep.
Pigs.
I never know how I stumble onto these articles, but this one introduced me to pasture-fed pigs.
American Guinea Hogs.
I guess they were the rage in the 1800s and then nearly went extinct before homesteaders revived the breed. But they had three things I wanted: they eat grass (because I have a nice pasture and it’s healthier meat), they stay smaller (commercial pigs can grow to become hippopotamus), and they are friendly.
I like friendly animals on my hobby farm.
So I found some baby Guinea Hogs.
I brought them home, and they settled in. We named them Bacon One, Two, and Three because I had plans for their futures.
I knew nothing about raising pigs when the Bacons arrived, but I quickly learned that they take mealtime seriously. And when is mealtime? Whenever I feed them. They’d have gone for the Mountain Dew and Mounds bars if I offered those.
The Bacons plowed over each other to get to the closest corner of their pen when I walked to the barn. Claiming to be delirious with hunger. The literature I read advised not to believe them.
When they’re not hurdling one another in their race to the feed trough, they scream. Friendly screaming, of course.
They are happy to let me pet them and offer them animal crackers. In fact, to feed them everything except chili peppers. They declined a second bite of those.
Yeah, we tried peppers just to see if there are limits to pig chowing.
Truly, all I wanted was for the Bacons to eat grass. All they wanted was to eat what I eat. Maybe eating my food for me.
One day, my sister called. “I have some food for your piggies.” She had cooked five pounds of potatoes, stirred in all the salad parts, and then added some mayonnaise, which had a sour flavor. Nobody in her family would eat the potato salad. Would my pigs?
Well, let’s find out.
I dumped the entire load of salad into a rubber pan in their pen. That was the happiest minute of their day. They turned a blind eye to the grass for twenty-four hours after that, waiting for more of my sister’s potato salad.
I asked, but she said it was a onetime deal. I hope her family appreciated her next potato salad as much as the Bacons would have.
As soon as my pastures greened up, I opened the gate to let the Bacons out. They found the grass quickly, and I figured my summer was set. Let them graze all they wanted.
But the next day, they were running around the barnyard. Outside the fence.
As soon as they spotted a human, they raced to us. Probably looking for potato salad.
We got them back in their pen.
“Pigs like to root,” my sister said. So we speculated the Bacons had lifted a gate off its hinges. We didn’t see a gate off its hinges, but this was our best guess. We strapped down the hinges so a rhinoceros couldn’t lift that gate.
The pigs were out the next day.
In their latest prison escape, they found the stored alfalfa in the lean-to. They explored the orchard. They grazed their way to the middle of the neighbor’s alfalfa field.
We lured them back to their pen with a big jar of animal crackers. Food is food, after all.
But the mystery continued. How were they getting out?
Aha. We finally spotted a broken crosspiece in the woven wire fence.
“Let’s laminate a panel over that hole in the fence,” I said. So we grabbed a wire panel and began lashing it to the woven wire.
“There are only two pigs in there,” my sister said as we worked.
“Yeah, the other one’s behind us.”
And so he was, watching us fix the fence. As soon as I spotted Bacon 3, the other two rammed their shoulders against the fence and pushed through the wire links. Easy peasy.
So that’s how they were getting out.
I locked them in a stout pen that closely resembled solitary confinement cells in the penitentiary. They didn’t escape.
Now what to feed? The Bacons got alfalfa until I realized I didn’t want to pay for expensive alfalfa all summer. The whole idea was healthy – and cheap – pasture-fed pork.
One of the side effects of carving your farmstead out of an alfalfa field is that alfalfa never dies. It’s like mint that way.
We have bunches of volunteer alfalfa still popping up in odd places, so I took the lawnmower out, catching the shredded alfalfa and dumping that in their pen.
It was almost as good as the potato salad. Based on their snarfing sounds.
And it kept me mowing the place.
Then came a magical day when I realized the Bacons were growing.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I opened the gate to the pasture.
They started grazing the grass immediately. No more ramming the fence and no more escape.
Now they eat nonstop in the pasture now. All-day cafeteria.
They still scream when I approach, to signal that they are starving to death and potato salad is required.
I don’t believe them, but I do have a rough idea why they almost went extinct once.
I just made progress on Cutting Through Despair: Dare to Hope! So far I’m 96% complete on the Writing phase. 12 Days remain until the deadline.
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At milking time, they usually crowd at the door ready for their sweet feed and animal crackers. But the day the lions came, they cowered at the fence line.
Too much is never enough.
I guess they were the rage in the 1800s and then nearly went extinct before homesteaders revived the breed. But they had three things I wanted: they eat grass (because I have a nice pasture and it’s healthier meat), they stay smaller (commercial pigs can grow to become hippopotamus), and they are friendly.