Listening to: The Futureheads
I found myself backed into a corner trying to placate a very grumpy sow. For some reason, visions from my first marriage sprang to mind.
I'd made the rookie mistake of bothering Kim when she was quite content quietly snuffling around her pen. Charm and sang-froid, not to mention a big stick, were going to be needed to get out of this one.
I had been trying to tell if she was in season - something any half-decent pig farmer can tell at a glance. Kim is due to go off to the boar on Mainland next week and it would help to know when she's likely to welcome Boss's advances. She's stands waist-high to the pig "farmer", weighs around 400lb and takes no shit. I wouldn't want to be in the Boss's shoes (trotters?) if he chose the wrong moment to climb aboard.
She'd seemed a bit "off" - lethargic and not as enthusiastic about breakfast as usual - so I tried what is generally recognised as the best way to test whether a sow is in the mood. I got behind her and pressed down on her hind quarters. Try explaining that one to the wife when she comes home unexpectedly early.
A sow in season should stand stock still, as if welcoming the. . . err. . . opening gambit. Kim was far from still, she got quite mobile, turning around, grunting angrily at the pig "farmer" who selected reverse gear and hurried away only for his retreat to be blocked by the far corner of the shed.
It could have been nasty, but Kim and I have got used to each other over the last 12 months and I know she's a sucker for a tickle behind the ears. So, tickling as I went, I edged away from the corner and leapt into the next pen where a heavily-pregnant Molly was eating her bedding. Terrific.