It was sunny and 70 here yesterday, and I am NOT complaining. It was one of those cloudless days where you see nothing but blue sky (in the morning, at least – big white fluffy clouds moved in in the afternoon) and makes me realize “Hey. THIS is why it’s nice to live in Alabama!”

I held t-posts for Fred while he drove them into the ground with a sledgehammer, same thing we did last week, actually – only last week I was bundled up in a very warm jacket and boots, and yesterday I realized pretty quickly that a short-sleeved t-shirt rather than the long-sleeved one I was wearing would have been fine.

I will tell y’all this – I didn’t get out of the car at all at the place where Fred and Mr. Egg put the pigs in the carriers, I didn’t approach the pens at all, I didn’t go near the carriers (which were on a tarp in the back of the car; I was in the front seat), and yet when we got home, I walked into the house and started to pull off the jacket I was wearing, and realized it smelled like pig poop. I pulled off my jacket and put it on the washer to wash, and realized my SHIRT smelled like pig poop. My pants smelled like pig poop. My HAIR smelled like pig poop. I stripped down and took a long, hot shower and then had to wash everything Fred and I had both been wearing. In fact, I had to wash everything twice, because after the first run-through, Fred’s clothes still smelled faintly of pig poop.

Merely marinating in the stench of bitty baby pigs for half an hour or so caused me and everything I had on me (and with me – including my PURSE) to absorb the smell.

That, my friends, is a powerful stench. And it wasn’t a pleasant one.

The pigs, however, once some of the pig poop was rinsed off them, began smelling quite a bit better. They’re awfully cute, even if they’re scared of us, and they’re pretty entertaining, especially when they start rubbing their little pig butts against their shelter to scratch an itch.

We thought they were both girls, but upon further consideration, Fred thinks they might both be boys. At this point we’re calling them “The Big One” and “The Little One” – the little one’s about half the size of the big one, but the big one’s the scaredest. We’re probably going to end up naming them something like “Ham” and “Bacon”, because supposedly if you’re going to name them, you should give them a food name so you think of them as food rather than a pet.

I offer for your consideration that one of the few named chickens we have was named “Fricasee” after food, and she’s the only chicken that will, I can state without a doubt, die of natural causes.


Bath time for Sugarbutt.


2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.

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