Thread: Pigs Down

Pscheow! Pscheow! Pscheow!!!? Three shots reverberated off the cliffs of Western Bay, where we were teaching. I stopped mowing, looked across the pumice road and saw my missus running along trying to reload my .308. I distinctly heard the words “…fucken pigs”.

To scald a pig, I used to light a fire under a cast iron bath, get the temperature to 72 degrees, lay a chain across said bath, heave the pig in and roll it round with filling my gumboots with scalding water. It worked. I now had three to do.

I ran across to where Shirley stood bawling her eyes out over the last of the trio. It was still thrashing so needed to be dispatched. The other two animals lay in the dust with dark patches etching outlines of a former life in the roadway. My three pet Captain Cookers were dead.

“Your fuck’n pigs got into my garden again! Look at it!” I did. There was nothing left; nothing except the cupped stalks of brassica chewed to ground level. Carrots were non existent, winter lettuce decimated, broccoli chewed out, caulis…Sheez, we’d put a huge effort into growing our veges. It was never easy trying to produce your own food in West Taupo when frosts and snow were regular callers in winter.

She handed me the rifle and stormed off still bawling her eyes out. Two of the pigs had been dealt to with accuracy whilst the third shot was a tad low. The work began. Have you ever experienced scalding and dressing three large wild pigs by tractor light on a cold winter evening as the sun sets and the frosts make you rub your hands and stomp gumbooted feet? I have.

With the three hanging in the shed to set, I tried to restore my relationship. First I showered. Next, I put on ‘Hold On To Your Dreams’ by ELO. My dinner hadn’t been dished up; it was cold and looked unappetising. The bedroom door was shut. Ah, stuff it, I cleaned the rifle and slept in the spare room.