You would think the poor little guys were jailed yesterday. The cries and whimpers and grunts coming from their unopened pen – whew! We humans would like to think we have ‘the’ handle on communication but I don’t know. These pigs know how to make their point sans words.
Per has this persistent grunt. Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, then maybe an UH, UH, UH, UH thrown in, then uh, uh, uh.
Abba on the other hand has a full range. She has the Uh down of course, then she has the cute squeak, Eeck, eeck, eeck, then she has this funny, plaintive warble, kind of ooo-ek-uh – how can twenty six letters work for me here? Maybe I can record her.
I didn’t let them out but I pulled two armfuls of grass, plantain and assorted weeds for them before I left. Accompanied by Dory, of course.
I stood watching as they shushed their cries and began to eat the greens, from bottom to top. I felt Dory lean against the back of legs. I leaned against the pen, sun on my back, dog on my legs, storing up quietude before my venture into Boston. Then I notice that Dory’s tail was wagging against the pig’s pen pretty far down from me. I had this fleeting thought – wow- that dog is is longer than I thought. Very fleeting thought and I went back to my sunny cedar-scented study of the pigs.
The tail-wagging persisted and that thought came back – how is her tail down that far when she leaning on my legs? This time I looked back at my legs. Dory wasn’t leaning on me. Bonniebelle was. She had quietly come up behind me and rested her head on my legs, her black coat soaking up the morning sun.
Who wouldn’t want to be a farmer?! How did I get this lucky?