This Little Piggy Cried Wee Wee Wee (all the way home)

Phil and I were up at 5:15, ready to deal with pigs. We had closed the first two pigs in the front of the trailer when we loaded the third, and the front two slept the night through. Connie, alone in the back, was a bit more restless. For perspective: the cattle trailer.

And here she is, looking out the top slat!

Phil had a good bit of maneuvering, while I ran support as he shuffled tractor and truck, but by 6:45, I sent Phil and his three charges off with a merry heart. Three less pigs! The joy!

The early morning farm was beautiful. The forecast was 100, so I enjoyed the cooler morning weather.

The few apples we have this year glowed in the first rays of sun.

Our new Barred Rock Rooster crowed.

The ducks, always birds of feather flocking together (so that even their heads stand still in the same way) waddled and quacked.

The wasp nest that was so perfectly formed and small at the beginning of the year has swollen to larger than a basketball. It's still a thing of wonder, but no longer vase-like.

With such a marvelous start to the day, I was utterly taken aback when, two hours later, Phil called. He had just unloaded the pigs when he saw a small sign. "It says here that they don't accept intact boars, and if you leave one, they'll call you to come back and get it."

Well our Chunky is nine months old. The woman we bought him from said she never cuts (castrates) her boars. Another pig owner mentioned he was about to kill a boar and get 600 pounds of sausage.

It never crossed my mind that boars would not be accepted at the abattoir. I never read anything in all the books I've looked through; the person I've spoken to at the abattoir several times never mentioned intact boars might be a problem. In the moment, it was devastating, devastating news. I was happy Phil was there dealing with the inspector, because I would have burst into uncontrollable sobs, I'm afraid. After so much aggravation, to find that Phil would have to bring a pig home ... it was almost past enduring.

But, happily, while Phil drove two hours home, I had a chance to gather my wits. This is not the end of the world. Chunky returned to his home. We'll kill him in the next few weeks. What we'll do with Buttercup, Charles, and six little piglets was the topic of discussion, and we did not reach a decent resolution. Other than that somehow we need to catch the three little boy piglets and cut them.

There are hard things in farming.

But good things happen, too. Phil got the tractor fixed. After reading an article in Mother Earth News about The Ten Worst Garden Weeds, Phil said, "I think we have nine of those." And reading about quack grass, crab grass, and Bermuda grass, I was inspired to get those out of at least my perennial asparagus bed. The article said that the only way is by hand: hoeing and tilling just cut up the roots and make it more happy to spread. So I've been weeding my asparagus.

And that's rather cathartic. For today, those weeds don't find a resting place in my garden. I like that.

Phil and I had given the cows a large area to graze yesterday. It had a partial hay bale, and a little section of grass they had missed last time. So I was startled to milk Catherine today: after a few days of flaccid udder and 1/4 cup, her udder again looked lush, and she gave over a half gallon. It was a stark enough contrast that I went looking for Clover, to make sure he hadn't died in the night.

I know where he rested yesterday, and he wasn't there anymore. I only had the will to push through the brambles for so long, and I never did spot him, but Catherine wasn't bawling, so I suspect he's just fine, keeping cool in the brush.