Of Pigs, Figurative and Literal

Ever have one of those days when you realize you own the barn pig?

Not in terms of food. Yes, Lucky will happily eat a bale of hay all by himself and still be hungry (and not put on a pound-between him and Puff, I hate male animal metabolisms), but I mean in terms of his stall. They were inside today, as we’re getting the edges of the Big Storm System, and it’s not easy to run them in and out every time it starts thundering, and I took him out to groom. At least he’s almost back to his sleek, non-yak-like summer coat. As we were between showers, I put him out in the round pen to graze a bit and stretch his legs and decided to pick out his stall so he wasn’t standing in more than he had to.

Well, J. had told me that Lucky likes to ‘grind up’ his bedding and spread it all over, and given this was just past noon and I’m sure the stalls were done that morning, he was understating the case. Lucky’s stall is the teenage boy’s bedroom of the horse world. He tosses his hay around, mixes it in with the straw, deliberately buries piles, and seems to be digging himself a hole in the middle. I managed to clear out the worst and re-spread his bedding. How he manages to make such a mess in what can’t have been more than a few hours, while looking perfectly calm and not at all like a stall-pacer I don’t know.

Now, as far as real pigs go, next door has a baby pot-bellied pig. A pugnacious pot-bellied pig. He’s even more assertive than the guard ducks (who have no problem bossing the small dogs next door but are smart enough to leave the hunting hounds and my larger dogs alone.) Today, piggy was trying to start something with Puff and Tucker. Piggy was very nearly pork tartare. And yet, he keeps coming back at them. And they say pigs are smart….

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