Here’s a great article from our archivesÂ by C.J. Mouser. She writes from her farm in central Florida, where she raises swine andÂ grows oranges with her husband and three children. Enjoy!
One recent morning, I went out to check on a sow that was in the process of having her babies. She was doing just fine, and would have continued to do so without my presence, but I was enjoying watching her. There were a million things I could have been doing in the house. Clearly, I was lallygaggin’.
I had just decided to go into the house and find something productive to do, when I heard a faint squealing. Sometimes I think we do things for a reason – even if we don’t know what the reason is. Maybe it’s fate, or divine inspiration, or something else guiding us. But something – call it ‘my little voice’ – kept me out there until I did what needed to be done. I just didn’t know what it was yet.
My hunt for the sound took me through the pasture gate and toward the orange grove. I was a little nervous – none of the domestic sows were missing, so I was guessing I was going to walk up on a wild sow out there in the grove with a litter. It’s not unheard of; sometimes the wild sows hang close by where they know there are other pigs. They feel more protected.
I quickly realized I didn’t have anything to protect myself with, so I began to walk sideways. You know, that way you walk when you think you might have to take off like greased lightning with very little notice. Peeking through the tree branches and getting more nervous by the second, I crept toward the sound.
I almost decided there was a wild sow out there, gave up and went back to the house. Almost decided that, but I didn’t…and I’m glad I didn’t. I finally came upon the source of the sound. What I found was a single little boar with perfect black and white Hampshire markings. Obviously he was a son of Bear, our big boar. He looked just like him, and for a new piglet, he was huge.
“Well now, what are you doing out here?”
I picked him up and noticed immediately that the white parts of his coat had turned pink from sunburn, so it was clear he had been out there a while. I gently carried him back to the nursery pasture and guided him through a hole in the wire. By then, the four mothers who were up and about had responded to his squealing, and each one came up and eagerly sniffed him. Then, one by one, they all turned around and left him. None of the mothers claimed him.
It suddenly dawned on me that he must have come from the sow who was still giving birth. But that seemed impossible. To get all the way out to the orange grove from where she was, he would have had to travel the equivalent of the length of a super Wal-Mart – twice – taking three-inch steps the whole way. It would have taken him an hour at least. I looked at him closer, and found that by comparison he was a lot cleaner than the other babies and his cord was short, but still damp looking.
“Dang, boy, you went a long way!”
“Weeeee!” (I sure did!)
Grinning, I carried him all the way across the pasture and deposited him with his mother. The first thing he did was take off for the grove again, but this time Mama called him back. He stopped mid-stride and decided he was hungry I guess, as he turned right around and dove into the feed line.
I don’t know where he’ll be tomorrow, but if he had spent the night out in the grove by himself he wouldn’t have made it. Being brand new, with no other piglets to snuggle with and keep warm, and after missing a whole night of feedings he wouldn’t have survived the night.
They say you should always listen to your little inner voice, even if you’re not sure what it’s trying to tell you. Even if it’s telling you that the dishes can wait, and the laundry can be folded later because, darn it, it’s just a lot more pleasurable to stand outside in the morning sun and watch baby pigs come into the world. No matter how long it takes.
I decided to listen to that little voice, and before long it wasn’t in my head anymore but outside, scared, cold and hungry. Today, my little voice came in the form of a squeal from way back yonder in the orange grove, and I’m glad I listened to it.