Wild Wild Hogs!

Here a while back, brief but fierce storm passed though our area bringing lightening, thunder, hail, wind and rain.It was the kind of day when you think that nothing in the world could make you leave the comfort of a cozy fire burning in the wood stove.

With a glowing fire cracking in the next room, I had just settled down in the office to do some paper work when the phone rang. I can't explain it, but I personally find phones a major waste of time. I shutter when mine rings. The caller I.D. said it was a friend and neighbor from down the road a little way. I sighed heavily because I knew I would be hooked into a long conversation that I didn't want to participate in.

I gingerly pushed the talk button but even before I could say hello I heard Kathy's voice shouting "He's Gone! In this storm! He's Gone! I don't know how he got out, but he's gone!"
When I calmed her down a bit, Kathy was able to tell me that her beloved little pet pot bellied pig "Rooter" had somehow escaped from his stall during the storm.

Referring to the place where Rooter lives as a stall it's a bit like down-playing the Taj mahal . He has an automatic watering bowl (warmed I might add. ) His plush habitat is lined with cushy rubber mats that feel more like a down filled mattress. He sleeps in a raised bed with foam mattress and a hand sewn quilt comforter. There is also a light hanging in his palace that comes on at 6am and goes off at 8pm. His high-end piggy condo is also rigged with an automatic feeder that dispensed a handful of food every 4 hours like clockwork. He also has access to a large pen in the outside world via an automatic door that opens both from the inside and out. In order to activate the door, he merely has to step on the door mat, and wallah!

This pampered pig gets brushed two times a day and a bath every other day, weather permitting. After his bath he is dried off with a towel and a blow drier and is fed a half of a banana, a slice of apple and 1 mini-marshmallow (his favorite.) I would be remiss if I failed to mention he also has classic music piped into his suite. Soft soothing compositions by Johann Strauss , Frederic Chopin, and Johannes Brahms (his favorite being Brahms) float lazily into his day dreams. Why this spoiled little ham hock would wander off is beyond my comprehension. I'd happily trade places with him any time.

Unless the preceding paragraphs haven't made it completely clear, let me put it another way; Kathy adores the little porker. When her frantic call came I knew I'd soon be trudging through the soggy countryside looking for the spoiled little ham-hock!

So,before long with a strong wind blowing rain sideways and stinging my face I tromped up and down, back and forth though the woods calling "Rooter, Here Rooter." Kathy's calls echoed a few feet away. After an hour and a half we had not seen any trace of him so we decided to dry off a bit and briefly regroup. During the regrouping session, Kathy reminded me that the last time he had run off he'd gone "up the hill."

The "hill" that Kathy was referring to is actually a mountain that is every bit as steep and torturous as Mt. Kilimanjaro. Maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but seriously it is steep and torturous. At the top there is a small lake and camp ground, which normal people reach via
the road and in a vehicle. We, however would have to climb on foot so as not to overlook the little pork chop.

It was getting dark, so we grabbed flash lights and were about to start our climb when my husband, Bruce, showed up. He had gotten off work and found my note telling him where I'd be. He reluctantly volunteered to join in on the hunt. (Actually I pleaded.)

We spread out about 20 feet apart and started slowly making our way up the "hill." Each of us shouting loudly into the encompassing darkness "Rooter! Rooter! Rooter!" Nothing. No piggy.

We eventually made our way to the top where we checked in with the park host and told him to be on the look out for a tiny black pot bellied pig named Rooter.

The park host took pity on us and drove us down the hill and dropped us off at Kathy's house. A quick check of the stall and grounds reveled no signs of the pig. We hugged Kathy and came home to dry off and eat dinner.

About 2am the phone jolted Bruce and I bolt upright in bed. I stumbled for the phone dislodging unknown objects as I picked it up. Kathy's piercing screech blew the sleep out of my ears with "The cops are going to shoot Rooter! come quick!" then the line went dead.

I relayed the message to Bruce who really did not want to participate in any game in the middle of the night, but he begrudgingly hoisted himself out of bed. We quickly dressed, jumped in the truck and sped to Kathy's home.

She was standing in her driveway holding a flashlight. Bruce opened the truck door and started to get out, but before he could, Kathy jumped in and said "They have Rooter cornered at the campground. Some stupid camper made a 911 call saying there was a WILD HOG trashing the campground and terrorizing everyone." She sobbed "They said they are trying to SHOOT him!"

We drove at lightening speed to the campground where sure enough there was a crowd of people cowering behind a county sheriffs vehicle...among them, I might add, was the sheriff. The vehicle had both the driver's door and the passenger side door open. I've seen this tactic used on cop shows. They use the doors as a shields against bullets. I have no idea how they thought the impenetrable doors would protect them from a pig so tiny that it could to walk under the door, but there they were.

We came in so quickly and stopped so abruptly that it caused every one to spin toward us. Kathy jumped from the truck with a banana in each hand and ran frantically toward the mob. Apparently in the darkness, the Sheriff thought she was holding a gun in each hand because he spun and pointed his gun at her and shouted "Drop the weapons..Do it NOW!"

Bruce who had just reached into the bed of the pickup truck and retrieved Rooters carrying case went slack jawed and let the carrier fall nosily to the ground. Everyone in the crowd took in a collective gasp and backed away from our truck.

While all this was going on I was reaching under the front seat for a bigger flashlight. I have no idea what the Sheriff or the crowd of frightened campers thought was going on, but suddenly everyone seemed to perceive us as a bigger threat than a wild hog on the rampage.

Kathy looked uncomprehendingly at the sheriff and kept moving in the direction she perceived Rooter to be in. The sheriff spun first toward her, then toward Bruce, then as I popped my head up from the front seat of the truck he spun back toward me. I was so very confused. Bruce was so very confused. The poor Sheriff was very confused. Kathy, on the other hand, was totally oblivious to anything but rescuing Rooter.

The sheriff spun back toward Kathy and shouted "I said Drop It NOW!"

Fearing Kathy was about to be shot I shouted "Kathy STOP! DROP YOUR BANANAS! The Sheriff thinks the bananas are weapons..STOP!

The crowds heads were rapidly flipping back and forth like someone watching a tennis match in fast forward. First they focused on Kathy, then the pig, then the sheriff, then on me, then on Bruce. Their heads flitted everywhere.

Finally Kathy stopped and the Sheriff was able to shine his light directly on the bananas Kathy was clutching and he relaxed . "They are for the Pig" I shouted. "The Bananas are for the PIG!"

The sheriff shone his light into my face and said "Lady step away from the truck...you too sir" (meaning Bruce.) Then he added "I don't know what you people think you are doing here, but we apparently have a wild boar terrorizing this campground. It's not safe."

I couldn't help it...I burst out laughing and said "Rooter? Wild? Terrorizing? He's a PET!"

Suddenly Kathy spotted Rooter cowering under one of the campers vehicles and she called "Rooter, Here Rooter... Come.. Bananas" Recognizing her voice he let out a pathetic sequel and as she bent down he rushed into her arms nearly knocking her over.

Quietly Bruce walked over with the carrier and opened it. Rooter grunted softly and walked calmly in.

Kathy apologized for the commotion. The Sheriff said he'd have to file a report, but then he thought about it for awhile and apparently decided how foolish he might look, so he waved us off and told us to drive carefully home.

The Boot Stompin' Boogie!

Generally we go out just as it is getting dark and lock all our animals in their pens, coops, or stalls respectively to protect them from the weather and predators. Unfortunately we slipped up a bit last night. We could blame the oversight on a lot of things, but my choice for the fall guy is the mailman.

You see, the mailman is the logical choice for scapegoat because yesterday afternoon he dropped off the latest DVD from Netflix. In order to have time to watch it we stopped our normal routine and had dinner a bit early.

After dinner we plopped a large glop of Vanilla Bean ice cream into two bowls, suffocated it with bananas, hot fudge topping and copious amounts of whipped cream and nestled in front of the t.v. to watch the DVD.

It was our intention to watch the DVD for about a half hour then dash out and settle the animals for the evening. However we became completely absorbed in the DVD and didn't realize we had neglected to properly secure the animals until it was over. The title of the DVD was (and it's critical that you remember this) Jane Goodall's When Animals Talk.

It was not until the DVD ended an hour an a half later and I was rinsing the ice cream dishes in the sink that I suddenly remembered we had shirked our evening chores. We were both relaxed and the thought of trudging out in the cold darkness didn't appeal to either of us. None the less, we slipped into our jackets, grabbed flashlights and strolled outside.

To expedite the chores we split the duties. Bruce went off in one direction and I went in the other. My first stop was the Goose coop. Now the Goose coop is a converted horse barn. The back side has a door that is large enough for a standard horse to pass though, and the front has a Dutch Door which can be opened either on the top or the bottom. We generally leave the large door on the back side open for the Geese to come and go as they please and keep the Dutch door closed.

I walked around to the back side of the coop and closed the large door. As I did I detected the unmistakable sent of a skunk. I quickly shined my flashlight around the outside of the coop and was relieved not to spot one.

Next I secured the chickens and then moved on to a second duck and Guinea Hen coop. As I moved about between the coops I carefully directed the beam of the flashlight ahead of me so as not to walk up unsuspectingly on the skunk, whose order was becoming more and more intense.

Bruce finished his chores and came back to where I was and asked where the skunk was. I told him I had no idea but it was obviously very close. We began to backtrack and finally decided the scent was strongest around the Goose Coop.

We walked cautiously around the outside of the coop and saw nothing but the scent continued to grow stronger. Finally I opened the top section of the double Dutch Door on the front side and to my surprise there was the skunk INSIDE the coop, locked in with the geese.

Amazingly the geese didn't seem to be distressed by the presence of a skunk mingling with them. Not surprisingly, I was.

Bruce suggested that I close the top section of the Dutch door and open the bottom and maybe the skunk would simply walk out. Note here that he suggested that I open the door. Meanwhile he backtracked about 10 or so feet.

Other than me being the designated door opener, I couldn't see much wrong with the plan so that is what I did. As Bruce predicted, the skunk casually strolled out the bottom section of the door.... and stopped on my right foot. Amazingly it just stood there perched on my foot sniffing the air. It was one of those moments when you are just positive your head will explode from the rush of adrenalin. I was paralyzed with fear, which I suppose was a good thing because moving would doubtlessly have caused the skunk to spray.

Bruce,who was still about 10 feet away and couldn't see what was going on grew impatient.
"Did it come out yet?" he called.
When I didn't answer he added "Well what's going on? Just leave the door open and come out here with me you don't have to stand there!"

When I still didn't respond Bruce took a few steps forward and shined his flashlight directly in my face. (That helped.) I inclined my head slightly in the direction of my foot but the slight movement went unnoticed so I let out a high pitched whine though clinched lips and teeth. The skunk, still standing on my foot remained totally oblivious to me.

Bruce, who still hadn't spotted the skunk, was obviously becoming irritated with me.
Finally he said "Well, ok just stand there if you want. I'm tired. I'm going to go in and go to bed."

Without moving my lips or any other portion of my body I managed to squeak out "Foot! Look! Foot"

Bruce apparently wasn't able to hear or understand me because his reply was "Ok, well I guess I'll see you in a bit."

"NO" I hissed though clinched teeth "Help Me! FOOT!"

Finally he shone his flashlight down at my foot and burst out laughing. He's always such a big help when I get in these unbelievable predicaments.

"Ahh I see" he smirked "well tell you what" he said " You use the skills you just learned from the Jane Goodall DVD to talk to it while I go get the gun"

I could hear him chuckling as he walked toward the house.

Great, now I had two fears. The first obvious one was being sprayed point blank by the skunk. The second was trying to figure out what on earth Bruce would do when he returned with a gun? Did he actually plan to shoot the skunk off my foot? No thank you!

The more I thought about it the more I decided my chances of survival were better with the skunk than with Bruce trying to blast the little bugger off my foot .

I stood there with the skunk still on my foot and with sweat rolling down my back contemplating my choices. Skunk? Gun? Skunk? Gun?

When I heard Bruce's footfalls crunching on the pathway leading back to the goose coop and I panicked. I jerked my foot out from under the skunk and yelled "Shoo Skunk Go! Get Out Of Here!

Now I really need to know...do skunks take tranquilizers? The reason I ask is because the skunk seemed totally unperturbed at being rousted off my foot. It actually just stood there looking up at me..Again considering my choices between skunk spray and bullet spray, I jumped back about 2 feet and started stomping my feet in the manner of a "Boot Stompin" Boogie."

This seemed to amuse the skunk because it stood there watching me for a few seconds before turning and strolling causally out toward the woods.

When Bruce reached the goose coop he was carrying the .22 rifle . I silently said a prayer thanking the Lord that it wasn't the shotgun.

When he noticed I was free of the skunk he grinned and said "So apparently you and the skunk had an amiable conversation?"

I shut the bottom half of the Dutch Door and said "I told him that if he had any respect at all for human beings he'd leave before you blew my foot off."


Side note: If you haven't seen it yet, take the time to watch: Jane Goodall's When Animals Talk
If you are an animal lover you will gain insight into your animal friends. If you don't like animals watch it anyway. It's an eye opener.

Resurrecting Sasha

When people find out that we live in the country on a ranch they get a glazed look in their eyes and their mind drifts to some far off imaginary place. They generally say something like "Wow, I've always dreamed of living on a ranch, you are so lucky."

We nod our heads knowingly and smile outwardly while laughing hysterically inwardly. These poor souls have no idea what hands-on ranching is really like. If ranching was a reality show most folks wouldn't last a week.

Now, don't misunderstand, I love our ranch and as hectic and chaotic as my daily life can sometimes be I wouldn't trade it. I just think people should know it's nothing like the Hollywood version.

For example: Yesterday I went about my usual early morning chores (in the pouring rain) of feeding all the animals and turning them out of their pens, coops and stalls so they could free range for the day. Then I rushed into the house took my shower and headed out to pick up a load feed for the animals and some groceries for us.

When I returned home I quickly put the groceries away and rushed out to check on all the animals (in the rain.) At first glance everything seemed to be normal, or as normal as things can be around here. But you see here is what people don't understand, looking after chickens, ducks, sheep, turkeys, guinea hens, geese, cattle and 10 score and 40 more other assorted living souls is a bit like running a day care center for several hundred pre-school human toddlers. They are scattered in all directions running, flying, cackling, mooing, bickering, nickering and playing and it can be utter chaos.

After I gave a precursory inspection and did a quick head count I noticed something out of the ordinary floating in the goose pond. At first I thought it was a twig but upon closer scrutiny I realized it was a chicken. She was bobbing lifeless in the water.

As anyone who knows anything about chickens will tell you they not only can't swim, they generally detest water deeper than a inch. How she wound up in the water I'll never know. My emotions volleyed between sad and angry as I fished her out. Upon closer examination I realized the little hen was one we call Sasha. We have over 40 chickens and most of them start out with names, but as they get older I often forget who is who. Then again maybe it's because I'm getting older that I tend to forget their names, however I will never forget Sasha.

With heavy heart I carried Sasha back toward the barn glancing down at her lifeless body every now and then. Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw her toes uncurl a bit. Was it possible that Sasha wasn't dead?

I rushed to the house where I tried to dry off her limp body with a towel. This is when a crash course in Poultry CPR might have come in handy. I may not be certified in Poultry CPR, but I do know that the first rule in reviving birds is to bring their metabolism up by keeping them warm, so I put Sasha on a dry towel in a cardboard box and rigged a lamp over her for extra warmth.

After half an hour her under feathers were still damp and she was not responding to my EMT treatments, so I tucked a heating pad under her.

When I checked her after an additional 15 minutes she still hadn't come around, and her body still felt damp. I had nothing to lose so I wrapped the towel around her and headed to the master bathroom where I set my blow dryer on low and turned it on her. She still had no real reaction other than an occasional involuntary twitch of her legs every now and then.

Bruce came home and knocked on the bathroom door and asked what I was doing. When I told him he opened the door and was immediately engulfed in a massive cloud of stray feathers. More were stuck on the mirror, the shower door and the walls. I had been concentrating so hard on getting Sasha dry I hadn't notice how many of her feathers were blowing about the bathroom.

I kept the blow dryer on her for about 20 minutes moving it slowly across every inch of her body. In the end, even though she was thoroughly dry she was still unresponsive.

Bruce knows better than to say anything when I'm trying to revive a sick or injured animal, but I saw the hopelessness in his eyes, so I laid Sasha back in her box with the heating pad and heat light and set about fixing dinner.

Every few minutes I checked to see how she was doing. By the time we'd finished dinner she was still laying on her side with her eyes closed.

By the time Bruce and I went to bed I was able to prop Sasha limply against the side of the box. Her head was drooped and her eyes were still closed. I was resigned to the fact she would be dead by morning.

Dead? Did I say she'd be dead by morning? Oh no! Not Sasha!

Around 1 AM I was jolted awake by what sounded like a helicopter landing on the roof of our house . I jumped out of bed dazed and confused and stumbled wildly around the bedroom trying to make sense of the noise. Bruce was sleeping soundly. Bruce always sleeps soundly. Nothing short of a blast from a steam ship whistle can wake him once he falls asleep.

The flapping, fluttering and whirling noise appeared to be coming from the bathroom and it took me a few minutes to remember that Sasha was in there. I opened the bathroom door and was assaulted by a furry of flapping wings and raspy squawking.

In a flash Sasha flapped her way past me and shot like a torpedo onto our bed where Bruce continued to sleep soundly. The commotion woke our 2 dogs, IsHe and WillHe, who immediately thought a new game was afoot. Simultaneously Sasha, the 2 dogs and I landed on the bed. Bruce moaned and rolled over (sometimes I think I should hate him for his ability to sleep so well.) I grabbed for Sasha but IsHe was faster, before I knew it he engulfed her in his mouth, bounded off the bed and ran into my office which is adjacent to the bedroom.

Somehow Sasha managed to escape IsHe's grip and flew onto my desk sending the stapler, calculator, keyboard, desk lamp, assorted pens and papers cascading to the floor. IsHe tried to jump onto the desk, which sent Sasha flying into the living room. There was a blur of dogs and feathers as I tried to catch hold of any part of the three crazed animals. Meanwhile books and magazines slid off the coffee table, a floor lamp went down, and a cushion from the couch flipped into the air.

I caught the cushion mid-air and flung it back toward the couch but missed and knocked over a vase of flowers sending water and flower petals flooding across the floor.

Finally, I managed to grab hold of the littlest dog, WillHe, and quickly tossed him out the back door. Meanwhile Sasha and IsHe bounded their way into the kitchen. By the time I got the back door shot and managed to stumble and fumble my way into the kitchen Sasha was on the table and IsHe was running wildly in circles under it. I grabbed IsHe and pushed him out the kitchen door and turned back toward the table to capture Sasha. She was gone. I finally located her by following the clatter of dinner dishes breaking in the sink.

When I finally had both hands of my hands firmly on Sasha there was a very brief moment in my sleep dazed, half crazed, mental state where wanted to find a very large stew pot and toss her in it. Instead however, I lifted her so I could look here in the eyes and said "So Sasha, you are obviously quite well and alive eh?"

I tucked her under my arm and walked out to the barn where I sentenced her to spend the night in solitary confinement in a small but secure cage. Walking back to the house , barefoot and coat-less (in the drizzling rain I might add) I tried to remember the perks of living in the country on a ranch. Curiously none came to mind.

Opening the back door I was greeted by a discombobulated Bruce holding a shotgun in one hand and the phone in the other. "OH THANK GOD" he shouted. "I woke up and found the house trashed, and you were gone.. I thought we had been robbed and you were taken hostage."

Sure..... after it's all over he wakes up.

The Headless Moose on Isle 9

I've just returned from an interesting trip to one of our local up-scale grocery stores. Here's why it was interesting:

A couple of our friends more -or-less invited themselves over to our house for a barbecue later this afternoon. Since I was unprepared for guests I asked them what they would like in the way of refreshments. They said "Oh a couple of Moose Head Beers would be great if you have them." I told them that a 6 pack of Moose Head would be in the refrigerator cooling when they arrived. When I hung up the phone I made a quick list of things I needed for their unexpected visit and rushed to the store.

When I parked my car and rambled up the ramp to the front door of the store I was approached by 4 small children dressed in the uniform of our local Catholic School. I guessed them to be in Kindergarten or maybe First Grade. They were selling raffle tickets to benefit there school... Ok, well you might as well know this about me, I'm a sucker for cute little kids selling things, and these little girls were way beyond cute, so I bought a couple of tickets and went into the store.

Things were going pretty well in the store until I hit the beer isle. To my surprise there was only one carton of Moose Head beer in the cooler and it was missing one bottle. Since it was the only pack on the shelf there I put it in my basket.

Things really started going wrong at the checkout stand. When the clerk saw there were only 5 bottles of Moose Head beer in the 6 pack carton she look suspiciously at me and said "Where's the other bottle?" I told her there were only 5 in it when I found it and that it was the only pack on the shelf. She stared me down for a brief moment taking my measure, then quickly slid the 5 pack under her counter and said "Well, I can't sell a broken pack." When I explained that I was expecting company later in the day and they had requested the beer she showed no sympathy and continued to slide my other items across the scanner. "Please" I pleaded "Can we call the manager or someone to help, I really do need to buy a 6 pack or even a 5 pack for our guests."

She stopped scanning, scowled at me and put one hand on her hip. With her other hand she picked up the intercom and said in an irritated yet monotone voice "There is a lady in the express isle who is missing a Moose Head can someone help?"

There was a collective gasp from behind me and when I turned around I saw the 4 tiny tots who sold me my raffle ticket. They each clutched an orange juice carton in their hands. Their mouths were agape and their eyes as large as silver dollars. I smiled and was about to attempt an explanation, but then I thought better of it. I didn't know which would be worse; letting them think I was looking for a missing head from a real moose or that I was buying beer in front of their innocent little eyes. I decided to let it go. Meanwhile the checker stood with both hands on her hips and shouted an apology to the ever growing line behind me. "Sorry folks, this lady needs another Moose Head, it will just be a minute."

The guy behind the little girls saw the humor in the situation and said "I think I saw a headless moose on isle 9 if that helps" I tried to laugh but what came out sounded more like a dog choking on a bone. Meanwhile, the little girls spun in unison, rocketed up on their tiptoes, and tried to see where isle 9 was." The rest of the line just smirked, their interest was obviously only in getting the line moving again.

In a minute, which seemed like an eternity, a young employee came to the check out stand and asked what was going on. The clerk said "This lady only has 5 Moose Heads in this pack " She pointed under the counter. "So go look in the dry pack section to see if there is a warm one there she can buy." He shook his head and said "We don't keep Moose Heads in the dry pack section, just in the cold case, but I'll see what I can find in back."

I looked down at the little girls who were now clutching their orange juice containers close to their chest. They looked deeply disturbed and I really wanted to say something to them, but words failed me. They were deathly silent and wide-eyed . They kept spinning around as though they expected a headless moose to come charging out from one of the isles at any moment. I imagined the horror running rampant in their minds as they imagined me cooking 6 moose heads for dinner... maybe boiled in a witches cauldron. It's likely they will be having nightmares tonight."

Once again the clerk started scanning more of my items and yelled a second apology to the mass of people in line behind me "We're working on getting this lady another Moose Head, it will just be another minute." People pushing carts past the checkout stand stopped and looked in my direction. They too were totally confused. I wanted to yell "It's a brand of Beer, not a real moose head" but embarrassment collected in my throat and was strangling me. I just smiled weakly and turned my back on them.

Suddenly I felt a tug on the back of my T-Shirt. I turned and looked around, then down at one of the little girls who had apparently collected enough courage to speak. She said "Why don't you want the whole moose not just it's head? I like moose's." The girl next to her was apparently fortified by the first girls courage because she added "That's mean!"

About that time the young employee ran up with a bottle of Moose Head and set it on the counter. "OH look" I said to the little girls "You see, it's not a real moose head, it's just a drink by that name...see Moose Head" I pointed to the bottle of beer and hoped they were not old enough to read but...of course they were. When the clerk pulled the 5 pack out from under the counter and plunked the new bottle down into it's slot the girls shouted in loud unison "BEER?" A look of total disgust and admonishment was so prevalent on their little faces that I almost wished they had been a real moose head instead of just beer.