Most tragic of tragedies, Charlotte our proposed Christmas Pig, has endured a nasty dog-bite on one of her buttocks (pronounced ba-ttock, as per Forrest Gump and the only way the children now seem to be able to say the word, amidst a flurry of giggles). Fred the Wonderdog is not looking so wonderful just at the moment. The small nip resulted in a rather large nasty looking abscess requiring a little doctorin'.
So yesterday afternoon the great Pig Whisperer and his trusty offsider (that would be me) did ourselves some pig-wranglin'.
Now pigs are quite difficult to wrangle. Someting to do with their anatomical anomalies. They have no necks. Which makes it extremely difficult, in fact nigh on impossible to hold them still.
So having stealthily approached her from behind, scalpel poised in hand, the abscess was lanced. Getting close enough for a penicillin injection was now made quite difficult.
So the gate was swung on her small covered pen to give us some more room to move. As she exited her pen, the great Pig Whisperer swooped. Grabbing a back leg, I was required to move in on the front leg, tipping her over. Unfortunately I wasn't given these instructions until after the event, by which time she had escaped the tackle. (As in any such marital situation, mind-reading is a prerequisite). The great Pig Whisperer's glasses were ripped from his face somewhere during this ruccus, which gave me moment to smirk (wrong move).
Second tackle was more succesful, with us both moving in like Gordon Tallis and Darren Lockyer. Poetry in motion. The pig was down with Matthew doing his best to keep the 80 kg hog somewhat calm. Still smarting from the rebuke I received for having not been "on the ball" during the first tackle, for one fleeting second I was tempted to thrust said penicillin needle into the human buttock presented before me. Santity prevailed, and Charlotte walked away rather nonplussed by all the fuss.