I was facing a cold, hard truth -- I was well-educated, well-read, well-traveled, and could laugh at a cocktail party in most corners of the world, but when it came to manual labor, I was retarded. After replacing the hacksaw with a wood saw, I cut a hole in the wall of the barn the size of a pig. I made a slide out of rusty roofing material, tied it with twine, and opened the door to the pen. I was prepared for five pigs to flock to me, but nothing happened. I put bread dipped in yogurt at the chutes and open corrals, but this time the damn pigs weren't hungry. They didn't want to leave the warm, dry, cozy pen. Nothing they could push, shout, beg or curse would change their minds. I was wet, cold and tired, the sun was going down again, and it was time to milk Delia again. If I wanted to close the door, I would have to remove the whole chute, which I was not willing to do at the time. I finished my chores and left, hoping the pigs would be bolder and hungrier in the dark and make their own way through the chutes and into the open corral.

As soon as I took off my clothes, I fell asleep and spent the night having pig-related nightmares. Mark didn't get back from Troy until midnight, so I got up alone the next day and went to the farm to milk. It was still dark when I pulled up to the farm, but as my headlights swept across the laneway, I could see that my chute was finished. The pigs had flattened it completely, and as I stepped out of the car, I could see their little pointy footprints all over the yard. I listened carefully. There were no voices. I checked the pig pens and the open corrals, and they were all empty. I began to understand how bad the situation was. They could be anywhere now, in the woods, digging through a neighbor's half-frozen lawn, or wandering on the road, and they could cause a serious accident. I jumped in my car and drove home with a heavy heart. Mark was still asleep, curled up under the covers.

I told him the whole story, in my carefully edited version of course. He got out of bed and dressed, not very happy, but at least he was moving. We drove to the farm in an irascible silence. By then the sun was fully up, and we could see their footprints more clearly in the melting snow. I was thinking that the devil's feet should also be cloven, like the hoof of a pig. Mark circled back and forth, trying to make out which way they were going, but the tracks didn't seem to lead anywhere. I set off for the barn with a bucket of grain to use as bait if we found them. Then I heard a familiar snort from the open corral. I looked through the door and saw a pig emerge from under the hay. Four other piggy-shaped hay piles began to move and the hay fell off their backs. They're home, they're safe, right where I want them to be. Mark stood watching and shook his head. I gave him a triumphant smile and told him I had everything under control and he could go home and go back to sleep. I need to get him out of here before he notices the hole in the barn, and I need to figure out how to fix it.

I was facing a cold, hard truth -- I was well-educated, well-read, well-traveled, and could laugh at a cocktail party in most corners of the world, but when it came to manual labor, I was retarded. After replacing the hacksaw with a wood saw, I cut a hole in the wall of the barn the size of a pig. I made a slide out of rusty roofing material, tied it with twine, and opened the door to the pen. I was prepared for five pigs to flock to me, but nothing happened. I put bread dipped in yogurt at the chutes and open corrals, but this time the damn pigs weren't hungry. They didn't want to leave the warm, dry, cozy pen. Nothing they could push, shout, beg or curse would change their minds. I was wet, cold and tired, the sun was going down again, and it was time to milk Delia again. If I wanted to close the door, I would have to remove the whole chute, which I was not willing to do at the time. I finished my chores and left, hoping the pigs would be bolder and hungrier in the dark and make their own way through the chutes and into the open corral.

As soon as I took off my clothes, I fell asleep and spent the night having pig-related nightmares. Mark didn't get back from Troy until midnight, so I got up alone the next day and went to the farm to milk. It was still dark when I pulled up to the farm, but as my headlights swept across the laneway, I could see that my chute was finished. The pigs had flattened it completely, and as I stepped out of the car, I could see their little pointy footprints all over the yard. I listened carefully. There were no voices. I checked the pig pens and the open corrals, and they were all empty. I began to understand how bad the situation was. They could be anywhere now, in the woods, digging through a neighbor's half-frozen lawn, or wandering on the road, and they could cause a serious accident. I jumped in my car and drove home with a heavy heart. Mark was still asleep, curled up under the covers.

I told him the whole story, in my carefully edited version of course. He got out of bed and dressed, not very happy, but at least he was moving. We drove to the farm in an irascible silence. By then the sun was fully up, and we could see their footprints more clearly in the melting snow. I was thinking that the devil's feet should also be cloven, like the hoof of a pig. Mark circled back and forth, trying to make out which way they were going, but the tracks didn't seem to lead anywhere. I set off for the barn with a bucket of grain to use as bait if we found them. Then I heard a familiar snort from the open corral. I looked through the door and saw a pig emerge from under the hay. Four other piggy-shaped hay piles began to move and the hay fell off their backs. They're home, they're safe, right where I want them to be. Mark stood watching and shook his head. I gave him a triumphant smile and told him I had everything under control and he could go home and go back to sleep. I need to get him out of here before he notices the hole in the barn, and I need to figure out how to fix it.