Horrid Hogs and Feeder Calves
Along with the cattle, we raised hogs. Dad used to say he had the hogs to pay for the pure bred Angus. In other words, there was more money in feeder hogs than pure bred cattle. Pigs are impossible to keep penned. Dads solution was electric fences. They are a lot of work too. Weeds and grasses grow to touch low electric fences used to keep little pigs in, which shorts out the electric fence. So one of our jobs was to walk the fence and pull away anything touching it. Which means a lot of zaps. I hated it. They were battery charged, so it wasn't dangerous, but a shock is still a shock. Even a little zap. Pigs don't like the feeling either and after a few zaps, (and a lot of squealing) they avoid the area of the fence. I knew I had to pull the weed away, and I knew what was going to happen when I did. I would cringe before I even touched the darn weed. Also, Dad loved to grab whoever was near and then grab the wire. It's the last person in line who gets the jolt. The longer the line before the last person, the bigger the shock. We learned to stay clear when he was near any electric fence.
Bigger pigs required bigger batteries. Dad was making a new fence in a field near the house one time when Moms parents were visiting. Dad had been teasing Grandmom S. about being afraid to grab the fence. She didn't take teasing well, and told him she wasn't afraid of his fence. She was use to the smaller batteries he used for the little pigs. He didn't tell her this one was hooked up to a big power. She took hold of the fence and it bit her hard enough to knock her back. Talk about being madder than a Jessie. Dad laughed about that for years and she would get mad all over again.
Still, any fence that quit working because of a short would soon have pigs running loose. And they always made their way to Moms garden. Or the road. Pigs and hogs don't herd like cattle. Getting them back in the pen was frustrating and sometimes exciting. I could hold my ground with the cows and usually turn them when they got out and had to be returned to a field. Which didn't happen often. Moving cattle from one field to another was just about the only time we had to chase cows. But, the pigs were out a lot. And no one can turn a pig when it comes at you, and they can run pretty fast. They just swerve past or mow you down. Dad would get awful mad at us when the pigs got past us. S did give it his best shot one day, but he just wasn't big enough. He had his legs spread and his feet planted and he refused to budge. The hog headed his way was about 200 pounds and ready for market. It ran right between his legs, lifted him off the ground and kept going with S on his back. S was facing the wrong end and his little legs stuck out on both sides and he was yelling and the hog was squealing and we were laughing. S had to dive off in in hog mud.
Hog mud is not like mud in a mud puddle after a rain. It's deep and it sucks you down. It's mud that pulls your shoes right off your feet. It's mud that talks to you when you try to walk through it. With a slurping and sucking sound. And, the smell is overwhelming and undescribable. Even from a distance. Being stuck in it will bring tears to your eyes. When I had to walk into a hog lot to feed or water, I would get Dads high gum boots on over my shoes. With each step, you move one foot by holding onto the top of the boot and pulling with one hand while you keep your foot up in the toe and lift as best you can without pulling your foot our of the boot. This manuver keeps you off balance. Then you have to shift your weight and start the process over with the other foot without falling forward, backward or sideways. And, all of this has to be done while hungry hogs are shoving at you, trying to get to the feed you have high over your head in a bucket. I never did make it to the feed trough. I always ended up throwing the food as far away from me as I could, bucket an all. Which got me out of that chore. Dad knew if he sent me to feed the hogs I would probably throw it over the fence and not even go in the pen. And no threat of a spanking was as bad as going into the hog lot. And when they got out, they never knocked me down, because I always got out of the way. I did not like hogs. They were unpredictable mean animals. Hog mothers sometimes even eat their own piglets and often kill the little ones by laying of them. That is why there is always a low fence near the birth pen that the piglets quickly learn to move under to stay out of the way unless Mom is flat and ready to nurse. When she starts to get up, piglets scatter. They may have been our "cash crop", but I hated the hogs.
Dad also tried another "cash crop" one year. He bought some feeder calves. Not Angus. He bought some calves of questionable breed and kept them penned in the barn to grow up big enough to sell. These calves got a little grain with the usual hay and winter silage. (I've been asked what silage is. Chopped up corn, stalk, ear and all kept in a big round silo to feed stock when grass is unavailabe in winter.) The grain for the feeder calves was cooked in an old turkey roaster. The big electric kind that are used at Church suppers and family gatherings and catering type dinners. Dad would mix barley with a little molasses and water and slow cook it till the next feeding. This was spread sparingly between 4-H projects, our two dairy cows and the feeder calves in a mixture of oats or wheat. It was suppose to make the feeder calves gain weight quicker. What Dad didn't know, till we were grown up and admitted it to him, was that the boys discovered they could take a board or two out of the haymow floor and use the hole to drop down on a calfs back. The surprised calf would buck and run. We would try to see who could stay on the longest. With a smallish pen and a bunch of startled steers, falling off could mean getting stepped on by another calf. That's a pretty good incentive to choose your own dismount spot. And this was so much fun that we shared the sport with the neighbors. Dad couldn't figure out why his calves weren't gaining weight. I wonder just how much money our exercising his calves did cost him? I do know he didn't try to raise feeder calves again. When we were grown and the the story came out, he just shook his heard and mumbled something about us wondering why he got so angry with us.
Yup, it's a wonder we lived to grow up.
Bigger pigs required bigger batteries. Dad was making a new fence in a field near the house one time when Moms parents were visiting. Dad had been teasing Grandmom S. about being afraid to grab the fence. She didn't take teasing well, and told him she wasn't afraid of his fence. She was use to the smaller batteries he used for the little pigs. He didn't tell her this one was hooked up to a big power. She took hold of the fence and it bit her hard enough to knock her back. Talk about being madder than a Jessie. Dad laughed about that for years and she would get mad all over again.
Still, any fence that quit working because of a short would soon have pigs running loose. And they always made their way to Moms garden. Or the road. Pigs and hogs don't herd like cattle. Getting them back in the pen was frustrating and sometimes exciting. I could hold my ground with the cows and usually turn them when they got out and had to be returned to a field. Which didn't happen often. Moving cattle from one field to another was just about the only time we had to chase cows. But, the pigs were out a lot. And no one can turn a pig when it comes at you, and they can run pretty fast. They just swerve past or mow you down. Dad would get awful mad at us when the pigs got past us. S did give it his best shot one day, but he just wasn't big enough. He had his legs spread and his feet planted and he refused to budge. The hog headed his way was about 200 pounds and ready for market. It ran right between his legs, lifted him off the ground and kept going with S on his back. S was facing the wrong end and his little legs stuck out on both sides and he was yelling and the hog was squealing and we were laughing. S had to dive off in in hog mud.
Hog mud is not like mud in a mud puddle after a rain. It's deep and it sucks you down. It's mud that pulls your shoes right off your feet. It's mud that talks to you when you try to walk through it. With a slurping and sucking sound. And, the smell is overwhelming and undescribable. Even from a distance. Being stuck in it will bring tears to your eyes. When I had to walk into a hog lot to feed or water, I would get Dads high gum boots on over my shoes. With each step, you move one foot by holding onto the top of the boot and pulling with one hand while you keep your foot up in the toe and lift as best you can without pulling your foot our of the boot. This manuver keeps you off balance. Then you have to shift your weight and start the process over with the other foot without falling forward, backward or sideways. And, all of this has to be done while hungry hogs are shoving at you, trying to get to the feed you have high over your head in a bucket. I never did make it to the feed trough. I always ended up throwing the food as far away from me as I could, bucket an all. Which got me out of that chore. Dad knew if he sent me to feed the hogs I would probably throw it over the fence and not even go in the pen. And no threat of a spanking was as bad as going into the hog lot. And when they got out, they never knocked me down, because I always got out of the way. I did not like hogs. They were unpredictable mean animals. Hog mothers sometimes even eat their own piglets and often kill the little ones by laying of them. That is why there is always a low fence near the birth pen that the piglets quickly learn to move under to stay out of the way unless Mom is flat and ready to nurse. When she starts to get up, piglets scatter. They may have been our "cash crop", but I hated the hogs.
Dad also tried another "cash crop" one year. He bought some feeder calves. Not Angus. He bought some calves of questionable breed and kept them penned in the barn to grow up big enough to sell. These calves got a little grain with the usual hay and winter silage. (I've been asked what silage is. Chopped up corn, stalk, ear and all kept in a big round silo to feed stock when grass is unavailabe in winter.) The grain for the feeder calves was cooked in an old turkey roaster. The big electric kind that are used at Church suppers and family gatherings and catering type dinners. Dad would mix barley with a little molasses and water and slow cook it till the next feeding. This was spread sparingly between 4-H projects, our two dairy cows and the feeder calves in a mixture of oats or wheat. It was suppose to make the feeder calves gain weight quicker. What Dad didn't know, till we were grown up and admitted it to him, was that the boys discovered they could take a board or two out of the haymow floor and use the hole to drop down on a calfs back. The surprised calf would buck and run. We would try to see who could stay on the longest. With a smallish pen and a bunch of startled steers, falling off could mean getting stepped on by another calf. That's a pretty good incentive to choose your own dismount spot. And this was so much fun that we shared the sport with the neighbors. Dad couldn't figure out why his calves weren't gaining weight. I wonder just how much money our exercising his calves did cost him? I do know he didn't try to raise feeder calves again. When we were grown and the the story came out, he just shook his heard and mumbled something about us wondering why he got so angry with us.
Yup, it's a wonder we lived to grow up.
posted by LeeAnn | 10:03 PM
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