'Pig Goodness'
Lead Summary
By
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By CHRISTINE TAILER
For The Highland County Press
I was anxious, perhaps even worried. I played the day over and over in my mind, imagining the way it should go, and trying to working out solutions to what could go wrong.
We borrowed a friend's horse trailer a few days ahead of time. The forecast called for rain, so we hitched it up to the truck and parked it out by animals' yard, the back end right up against the small gate. I sighed, no need to worry about tires spinning on wet ground. It would now be a straight shot right down the hill with the trailer. One fear was alleviated.
I gathered up the last of the season's cucumbers and green peppers. The tomatoes were long gone. I smashed them open on a nearby fence post and added them to the pig feed. In all of her two hundred pound glory, Pig "A" trotted right over, and without a pause, greedily set to chomping the treats right up. Once finished she snorted her contented pig snort and I guiltily scratched behind her now huge ears.
The few days passed quickly. We woke early and did the animal chores and then, with the goats all fenced in on the far side of the yard, Greg filled a bowl with pig feed, showed it to Pig "A", opened both the yard's gate and the rear door to the trailer, and set the bowl inside.
Pig "A" trotted right up to the trailer, put her front feet up on the rear bumper and then danced back into her familiar yard. I had one cucumber and a few peppers waiting in my pocket. I smashed them on the gate post and tossed them into her bowl. Pig "A" turned around at the smell of her favorite food. She almost danced up into the back of the trailer, gracefully trotting inside. We closed the trailer door.
Greg drove slowly so that she would not lose her footing. We stopped along the way to get some carry out coffee. I stood on the trailer running board and peered inside. She was contentedly snorting her way around inside the trailer, unearthing old straw left by her predecessors.
As we arrived at the "packing facility" an elderly couple was unloading tidy packages of beef from a stainless steel cart into several plastic coolers in the back of their truck. We went inside. A young girl stood behind the counter. She looked no more than 16. She read down a form and checked off the cuts of meat that we would like, pork chops, ribs, loin, bacon, smoked ham, and, of course, sausage.
I noticed that she was missing about an inch from the end of one of her fingers. A hazard of the trade, I supposed. Behind the counter, several young people stood at stainless steel tables cutting and packing meat. The counter girl directed us to back the trailer up to a wooden gate around the side of the building.
As Greg maneuvered the trailer into position I spoke to the young boy who came out to meet us and take delivery of Pig "A". He looked to be about the same age as the young girl inside. I asked what he thought of our pig and he said that she looked just the right size.
He explained that too big and the meat turns dry and grainy, but that between 200-250 pounds, the meat was perfect, in his opinion. I smiled. And then Greg had the trailer in position. The boy opened the rear door and Pig "A" looked out. He got in behind her and gave her a nudge and she stepped off the trailer and into a wooden shoot, too narrow for her to turn around. She snorted and sniffed at the ground. Another pig was in the shoot ahead of her, placidly waiting.
Pig "A" simply took her place in line. I gave her one last look and remembered to say "Thank you Pig "A". She turned her head and looked at me out of her left eye through a slat in the wooden shoot. She snorted once, and then turned back to investigate what lay ahead of her. Again, I said "Thank you", and then I turned back to climb up in the truck beside Greg.
The goats bleated their beggarly goat greeting when we got home. The yard looked somehow empty without our pig's bigness to fill it up, but I smiled, knowing that soon our freezer, and later our bellies, would be thankfully filled with pig goodness.
Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.[[In-content Ad]]
For The Highland County Press
I was anxious, perhaps even worried. I played the day over and over in my mind, imagining the way it should go, and trying to working out solutions to what could go wrong.
We borrowed a friend's horse trailer a few days ahead of time. The forecast called for rain, so we hitched it up to the truck and parked it out by animals' yard, the back end right up against the small gate. I sighed, no need to worry about tires spinning on wet ground. It would now be a straight shot right down the hill with the trailer. One fear was alleviated.
I gathered up the last of the season's cucumbers and green peppers. The tomatoes were long gone. I smashed them open on a nearby fence post and added them to the pig feed. In all of her two hundred pound glory, Pig "A" trotted right over, and without a pause, greedily set to chomping the treats right up. Once finished she snorted her contented pig snort and I guiltily scratched behind her now huge ears.
The few days passed quickly. We woke early and did the animal chores and then, with the goats all fenced in on the far side of the yard, Greg filled a bowl with pig feed, showed it to Pig "A", opened both the yard's gate and the rear door to the trailer, and set the bowl inside.
Pig "A" trotted right up to the trailer, put her front feet up on the rear bumper and then danced back into her familiar yard. I had one cucumber and a few peppers waiting in my pocket. I smashed them on the gate post and tossed them into her bowl. Pig "A" turned around at the smell of her favorite food. She almost danced up into the back of the trailer, gracefully trotting inside. We closed the trailer door.
Greg drove slowly so that she would not lose her footing. We stopped along the way to get some carry out coffee. I stood on the trailer running board and peered inside. She was contentedly snorting her way around inside the trailer, unearthing old straw left by her predecessors.
As we arrived at the "packing facility" an elderly couple was unloading tidy packages of beef from a stainless steel cart into several plastic coolers in the back of their truck. We went inside. A young girl stood behind the counter. She looked no more than 16. She read down a form and checked off the cuts of meat that we would like, pork chops, ribs, loin, bacon, smoked ham, and, of course, sausage.
I noticed that she was missing about an inch from the end of one of her fingers. A hazard of the trade, I supposed. Behind the counter, several young people stood at stainless steel tables cutting and packing meat. The counter girl directed us to back the trailer up to a wooden gate around the side of the building.
As Greg maneuvered the trailer into position I spoke to the young boy who came out to meet us and take delivery of Pig "A". He looked to be about the same age as the young girl inside. I asked what he thought of our pig and he said that she looked just the right size.
He explained that too big and the meat turns dry and grainy, but that between 200-250 pounds, the meat was perfect, in his opinion. I smiled. And then Greg had the trailer in position. The boy opened the rear door and Pig "A" looked out. He got in behind her and gave her a nudge and she stepped off the trailer and into a wooden shoot, too narrow for her to turn around. She snorted and sniffed at the ground. Another pig was in the shoot ahead of her, placidly waiting.
Pig "A" simply took her place in line. I gave her one last look and remembered to say "Thank you Pig "A". She turned her head and looked at me out of her left eye through a slat in the wooden shoot. She snorted once, and then turned back to investigate what lay ahead of her. Again, I said "Thank you", and then I turned back to climb up in the truck beside Greg.
The goats bleated their beggarly goat greeting when we got home. The yard looked somehow empty without our pig's bigness to fill it up, but I smiled, knowing that soon our freezer, and later our bellies, would be thankfully filled with pig goodness.
Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.[[In-content Ad]]