You try and do something nice for someone and are they grateful? Like hell they are.
No sooner do I take the decision to keep Molly in retirement rather than send her off for bratwurst, than she makes me look a right chump - again.
I strolled out into a dreich Westray morning with feed bucket in hand and the alarm bells went off straight away. No sign of herself.
I rattled the sow nuts in the bucket and watched in dismay as Molly came squeezing back into her paddock under the fence from the vegetable garden. My stomach lurched as I dumped some food on the ground to keep her occupied and went to have a look at the damage.
Almost the entire main crop of (about 70) cabbages was in bits, about three rows of carrots were dug up and there were onions all over the place. Although the beetroot had hardly been touched and the peas, beans, leeks and lettuce were still OK, 'Gutted' doesn't begin to describe my feelings.
Back in Molly's paddock, I firmly ushered the old girl back into the pigshed and shut her in to have a good think about her behaviour and went to have a look at the fence where she had removed a beam wired on at ground level to the fence posts in a effort to stop her digging (yeah, I know), not to mention three fair-sized flagstones dug into the ground, dug a steaming great hole under the fence and trashed the wire mesh in the process of squeezing herself under it.
I decided to leave her indoors for the day and set about replanting onions and sorting out whether there were any cabbages worth saving (there were ten and I promoted another 30 from the nursery rows - mercifully untouched), while trying to resist the temptation to book Molly in for "processing".
I may have said this before. . . bloody pig.