Remember the ten little piggies?  Well, they are not so little anymore.   They have become fast growing, constantly pooping beasties that even their mom will be glad to separate from next week. Maria still loves them and they like to curl up together but life is a never ending search for food, and more food.

Question: How much food can a pig eat at one sitting?

Answer: Nobody knows. They never stop eating long enough to find out.

They are still fun to watch and the center of attention for our visitors, but now it's more along the lines of, "Wow! Look how big they are!" as opposed to the "Aww, how cute!" stage. We will be keeping three and the others will find new pastures in about a month.
So in three months, they have gone from one pound to about forty pounds. Now that's a weight gain to be proud of for sure.

The Piggies Got Big!

The Piggies Got Big!

The piggies, still a few months away from being big enough to star in the touring stage production of "Hannibal," check out the camera.

As I said last blog, Maggie has turned into an ungrateful, unlovable bitch-calf!  The situation needs to be handled NOW. There is nothing more dangerous than a hand-reared animal—potentially weighing 1200 pounds—that has a bad attitude and no respect. 

So, yesterday I handed over some responsibility to the donkey, the horse, retired bull Rudy and the steer, Quinton.  They are kkind of like the gang in "Reservoir Dogs" (albeit minus the black suits and Quentin Tarantino's endless dialogue) or perhaps the Wild Bunch.  In the early morning, I lured Maggie in with a bucket of milk and managed to get her into the big pasture where this group of misfits reside together in pastoral harmony.   As soon as she saw them she panicked and galloped off into the distance. Fabulous.  Here goes my Saturday. But little ones are always curious and it didn't take long for her to see just how big and bad and ugly this group was. I knew they wouldn't hurt her, so I tackled other Saturday chores like finding where the cat had pissed this time and so on.

At dusk it was time to feed the beast again, but this time she came running up with her new family. She kept going behind Rudy, the immense Limousine bull, who, unbeknownst to her is her father.  What is she doing...Oh God!   She was busy trying to feed off him. I really don't want to get graphic here, but, suffice to say, this was inappropriate behavior (and illegal even here in the South) and Rudy was obviously getting annoyed. There was nothing I could do as I saw him raise his massive leg, which must weigh at least a hundred pounds, and draw it back to give a life-ending kick.And then, with incredible restraint, he controlled that kick so it was more of a nudge, just enough to stop her doing what she was doing.

It is at times like this that I really appreciate how much we can learn from these animals. Rudy has always loved the calves, and contrary to myth he is not vicious but loves to play and protect them. There is definitely a role that fathers play in animal groups and all too often they don't get a chance. Of course on a normal farm, a non-productive bull would be sent away, but normal and my life don't often collide in the same sentence.  I see Rudy as having an important role of protector, mentor and baby sitter. He is a gentle giant that deserves to spend the rest of his days, chewing that cud and remembering the days when he had twenty wives all to himself.

After a traumatic birth, Maggie the calf (apologies to Tennessee Williams) was finally dragged into the world from her mother, Mary Jane. Readers may recall that Mary Jane was the psycho cow that nearly killed my husband and was like a bull on steroids. Sadly (or not so sadly, depending on your point of view), she lost her battle with life and passed away a week after the birth. Trying to round up and separate a week-old, eighty pound calf from its dead mother is a lot easier said than done.  

As usual, I was dressed in the office best, and alone.  Why it never occurs to be to don more appropriate attire and wait for help is a question Florida's finest mental health professionals have failed to answer.  Where the hell is everybody when I need them?  It took a good, exhausting, sweaty hour but eventually I got little Maggie in the safest pen, the chicken pen.  Then the fun started. It's not like the movies where you bring out a bottle and the calf sucks enthusiastically, its little tail wagging. No!  I had to physically pin her to the wall, force her jaws open and try and squirt some of the life saving liquid down there.   At such a tender age, calves really need about two quarts per feed.  She eventually drank about one quart, and I wore the other.

It didn't take long though for Maggie to become demanding and the feeds increased to two gallons a day. I only wear about a pint a day now. But we are not bonding. Strange. The last baby, Faye, was gentle and loving. Maggie is aggressive and bloody-minded. I fear that she may have inherited her mother's bitchy personality and tendency for mayhem and has the potential to be even more dangerous. At two weeks, for no reason, she turned and kicked me square on the shin.  Yes, a calf is strong, and it hurts!  Now, I am a fairly reasonable person, and anyone can make a mistake, but this has become a habit.   The trouble is, recovering from pneumonia as I am, I just don't have the reflexes or strength to kick back, which is what should happen. She even kicked a chicken, sending it sailing through the air.

What to do...?

Sometimes, life on the farm is a study in duality.  Life and death, pee and poop, panic and calm...you know the drill.  Case in point: a few days ago, my beloved husband Kent was nearly crushed to death by 1300 lbs. of fast-moving cow.  I can safely say that you have no idea how much of your old speed you've retained until you are being chased by a beast the size of a Yugo.  Kent dove (or more accurately, threw himself) over a five-foot rail fence and just barely missed being squished by Mama Cow. That's Psycho Cow in the photo, hiding behind the tree, just waiting for another chance.  I smell hamburgers on the air...

And then comes the duality: Maggie the calf, whose life we saved after her own mother died.   Cute as a button as all baby animals are, something right out of "City Slickers."  I don't know whether Psycho Cow will adopt her or what, but if she does, then it's a sure bet than one day, she'll grow to psychotic mama cow proportions and probably try to kill us.  Until then, she's adorable. 

Martha Stewart the chicken, you may recall, had been crippled and nearly killed by Brer Fox, and then while recovering from her injuries, set upon by family and friends in a vicious attack designed to finish her off.  It was terrible to watch, sort of like something from "Dynasty" or "Falcon Crest."  Well, we have had an interesting turn of events in her life, and it should give all of us hope that life can be turned around no matter how low things sink.

About a week or so ago, I got another frantic "Can you help me, I've found a ______ and don't know what to do!" call.   These come in fairly often around here and always keep life hopping.  While still on the phone, I started to prepare the shower for the next contestant in the Game of Life. This time, the shower residents were four tiny, day-old chicks, found in a dumpster.   Sometimes, I want to scream at people!  This was no accident. This was premeditated murder. No only do babies of this age need food, water and 85-degree warmth continuously, but any predator (and chicks are beset by a never ending list of them) could swallow them whole.  Also, this had been no ordinary dumpster.  It was a compactor.  The next person to close the lid would have would caused the compression machine to activate and we would have had...well, chicken paste, I guess. The rescuer, God bless her, climbed in, pulled them out and called me.

Can we save the damned chickens and start making Idiot McNuggets, please?   

Since chicken rehabilitation is a speciality of mine (how does THAT look on a resume?), they were settled in no time.   The problem was, what was I going to do when they were bigger?  They were too tiny to go outside, and when they did get big enough the Kelly Park Chicken gang (my pack of decidedly bitchy, unfriendly fowl) had already shown that no outsiders were welcome. Suddenly I remembered that Martha had always been a good mother.

I picked her up and put her in the shower. She didn't react to the babies with anything other then feigned indifference, but she didn't hurt them either. Yeah!  This might work. Within twenty-four hours, she was letting them sleep under her wings from warmth and had discovered that she did still have a purpose in life.  The whole bunch now lives outside in the dog run and M.S. mothers them as though they are her own. It's a nice ending and goes to show that even if your own family are assholes to you, maybe another one will come and teach you love, all over again.

Martha Stewart Comes Home

Martha Stewart Comes Home

Martha Stewart, special needs chicken, meets her new adopted brood in the shower, cheered on by April, the miracle cat who survived her 2006 tour through the clothes dryer. Never boring around here!

Martha and her new kids on the (non chopping) block

Martha and her new kids on the (non chopping) block

Two weeks after they met in the shower, Martha Stewart and her adoptees are happy residents of the dog run...and Brer Fox is nowhere to be found.

Sometimes, you just need an excuse to publish pictures and videos from the farm to show what a wonderful and strange existence we lead out here amongst the critters.  There's me and my "nice ass" having a moment together, a sweet little calf trying to eat my hand, and me captured in one of my more macho moments at the wheel of our tractor.  On the video side, we have me scolding Maria about her personal hygiene (a really unfair thing to do to a pig, when you think about it), a jealous cow, and lovely moment with a dove that I took in (but which is NOT sleeping in my shower—so far).

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Maria getting a lecture on hygiene.

Jealous Cow

Jealous Cow

One of our cows gets a little envious of the attention paid to a calf.

Conversations with a dove

Conversations with a dove

Occasionally you run across something so beautiful that even my cynical heart melts. This brilliant white dove was one of those things.

I wish there was a hint of fall in the air, but here at the farm in Central Florida, that just means it's a smidgen less hot (93 instead of 97) and a tad less humid. That means your hair stays decent for fifteen minutes instead of ten. It's is admittedly getting tiresome trying to round up the ten little piggies. They are, frankly, becoming like LA gang members, leading each other into no good and even pissing off Yummy Mummy Maria Pig. In fact I caught her in the act of doing a spot of piglet tossing, accompanied by much squealing from said hooligans.  Of course had PETA been here she would surely have had protesters camped outside her pen, rallying against her inhumane treatment of piggies. But, the little swine come back for more, and I am still impressed by her ability to control that five hundred pound body with such finesse.

At least we had a spot of fun when I used a simple garden hose to create a small piggy water park in one of the stalls.  These little escape artists are easier to amuse than a human toddler...and of course, there aren't quite as many objections when in six months you kill and eat them.  Hard to do that with your own kids, no matter how tempted you may be from time to time. 

So, we have reached a decision. This will be the last day of freedom for the ten little piggies. They have had the run of the place but after wandering so far from Maria they stand a good chance of meeting an early untimely demise at the hands of Brer fox, a neighbor's dog, or indeed a human pignapper looking for a nice little suckling pig.  I have just realized why they are call ed suckling pigs! Duh ! Blondie.

Speaking of which, Maria is also trying hard to wean them. She does this by spinning around and administering the odd well-placed kick from her huge trotters. In intensive farming, they take the babies away from the mom at three weeks...ours will stay with her for about three months in order to pick up good piggy manners.  Until the enclosing, I will once more go and try and count ten very fast moving piglets. One, two, three....one, two, three, four,five....no wait, I counted him already.  Damn.  Start again.

Piggies at the Water Park

Piggies at the Water Park

A simple garden hose becomes a water attraction for the little piglets, who haven't yet figured out that they can take a drop and a one-stroke penalty and avoiding trying to hit over the thing altogether.

Yesterday, we celebrated my birthday at the farm with a surprise party complete with live Brazilian Samba band and of course a chicken in the shower of the main toilet facility. As always, there was the odd guest who thought I might be unaware that said animal was in there. We had several cases of people coming up saying, "Did you know you have chicken in the shower?" and me feigning surprise by gasping, "No! Really? I wonder how she got in there?" There was a lot a lot of concern as to whether the chicken would mind them using the bathroom, which I thought was rather sweet. "Just don't wiggle anything too vigorously in there, or she may think it's a worm," I said. That was a couple of beers into a good night, but I did notice that most of the men chose to use a different loo from that point on.

As usual, as the festivities continued, farm tours were requested. This is always Kent's host contribution. Mine tends to be more along the line of shouting, "Let's all dance ‘til the dawn breaks and pretend we are young and giddy!" These midnight farm tours are always full of surprises, especially for the peacefully sleeping animals that have finally closed their eyes for forty winks despite the raucous partying. There is always some self-professed animal expert ready to show off his animal husbandry skills in public. In this case, it was a lovely young man, Joel, who is pretty handy around livestock, who decided to jump in with Maria, the mummy pig, and her ten little piggy babies. Rather pleased with his pig catching skills (and it really was worthy of a Rocky VII movie) he held a squealing baby high in the air....for about ten seconds before said mummy heard her baby and charged, full snout ahead. Joel left the pen a lot quicker than he went in.

Maria's piglets continue to be much cuter one on one than they are in an elusive group.  Mountbatten and Peggy Sue are showing quite the personality.  We're still working on a "piglet cam" and our naming contest. 

In light of the salmonella scare sweeping the country, my chickens have come up with their own solution: Just stop laying eggs!

Yeah! Great! Now I have to go and buy some at a store and probably face buying the germ-ridden ones. Do you remember Mrs. Tweedy, the farmer's wife, in the movie Chicken Run? I am thinking of playing an excerpt from that to my feathered brethren so they get the idea.  Don't mess with Annie's fresh eggs.  I have been patient.

Of course, I suppose they have reason to feel some what traumatized and even have a touch of PTSD -- Pullet Traumatic Stress Disorder.  After all, they have seen their companions slaughtered in front of them by Brer Fox, an attack that left Martha Stewart disabled and Edwina Curry...well, addled might be a good word. In fact, Edwina Curry was so shocked that some of her feathers have turned white and she spends a vast amount of time staring into the ground, contemplatively, perhaps mulling over her own chicken mortality.  Maybe I should be more patient.

I am going to be honest and say that a little of the thrill of the ten little piggies is started to wear off. Here's the thing: both Maria (mummy pig) and I are constantly trying to keep track of the little buggers. From a large animal predator standpoint, we have to keep a close eye out for Brer Fox who would love to supplement his organic diet with some fresh pork chops. Then there are the eagles that constantly hover overhead, can carry away little Rose or her siblings in just a few seconds. I don't know if Maria can count, and as sort of a surrogate granny I find myself constantly trying to keep track.

It hasn't helped that they have learned how to do the Great Pig Escape. You would swear that the pigpen is as tight as a nail in a coffin, but somehow they squeeze and wiggle their way to freedom and the farm becomes their playground. The damned things are so quick that I am never sure if I have counted the same one twice. Ahhh! Very frustrating. But it has taught me that pigs have an amzing vocabulary. Maria has certain grunty noises for feeding, watering, playtime, reprimands and is an outstanding mother in her ability to referee piglet squabbles.

We've started to name the pigs. So far we have Mountbatten, Rose and Peggy Sue. Before too long, we're going to have a live "Pig Cam" in their pen and we'll hold a "Name That Pig" contest so readers can help us name the other seven. Until then, I have to chase some swine.

Runt Club

Runt Club

Every litter of pigs has its runts, who are always the fastest and cutest of the bunch. Here are Maria's runts in action!

Every litter of pigs has its runts, who are always the fastest and cutest of the bunch.  Here are Maria's runts in action!

Piggy Yard Work

Piggy Yard Work

The pigs digging up my lawn!

Pigs, regardless of age, are incredible rooters and can furrow a piece of ground in no time looking for all manner of yummies.  Maria's offspring waste no time in helping Annie aerate her front yard.