In With Pigs

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?

Okay, I wasn’t supposed to do it.

And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.

But that just made it all the more fun.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, behind the *shudder* chicken coop was the pigpen.

It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.

A destination in itself.

A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.

And boredom was threatening to set in.

Or one was feeling adventurous.

One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Pause there.

And pick out a victim co-conspirator.

I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.

When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.

And a taste.

And they love to be scratched.

Back to my story . . .

All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.

Scratch a couple.

And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.

The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.

And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.

Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly fleeting.

One’s raging father could – and usually did – appear.

How did he do that?

But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.

Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:

Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.

Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!

Yeah. Let’s just cross rocket scientist off that future occupations list.