By Lochiel Edwards
Time was, nearly all farms in Montana had livestock of one sort or another, and this American Gothic view probably remains in the minds of most citizens. Our farm held tightly to the principles of growing our own food all the way through the ‘60s, with milk cows, pigs, chickens, beef and acres of garden, ensuring we’d never go hungry again – to paraphrase Scarlett O’Hara.
As our grain business expanded and our workforce diminished, we dropped each of these animal enterprises one-by-one. First to go were the milk cows; by some strange coincidence this happened about the time our local one-room school was permanently closed. My sister and I started commuting to the high school in town and were no longer available morning and night to do the milking. Then, sayonara to the chickens when we could no longer sell eggs to Buttrey’s because of Hutterite competition. I don’t recall any clear reason for the pig departure, but suspect that cheap pork in the grocery store had something to do with it.
One regret – I miss those pigs.
Hogs are among the most intelligent animals on earth, are very social, and just good fun to be around. My brother and I spent many hours playing with them in the hogyard when we were kids, especially in the summer when they were small. By the time fall arrived, they would be pushing 200 pounds and played pretty rough, putting a chill up your spine if you weren’t cautious.
Our model was to buy freshly weaned young hogs in the spring, and feed them until winter. We had an old hammermill and used it to crack wheat, mixing that with water to make a vichyssoise fit for a king. But hogs are omnivores, and they have a craving for meat, as well – a good thing to remember, when you’re horsing around with them.
We usually ran about 600 chickens, which were free-range in the daytime and were tempted to raid the pigs’ wheat porridge. If they were careless about swiping some from the hog trough, pigs would snap at them
and occasionally catch one. The pigs’ enthusiasm for chicken dinner was a bit violent and frightening!
One particular batch of feeder pigs became very adept at catching hens, and my grandfather was not pleased. We had a rooster in the flock that was not loved by anyone because he would attack you if you turned your back on him. So, no vote was taken and the rooster was volunteered to save those hogs from their sinful ways.
Our hogyard was big, three or four acres, with a woven wire perimeter. To keep hogs from rooting under this fence, an electric wire hung on the inside, a foot above the ground. Pigs are very sensitive to electric fence, and only need be shocked once to keep them away for a whole year. We tied the rooster (his name was Ben) to the electric fence with a length of baling wire.
The fence charger was an old 6-volt Parmak with a mechanical capacitor that sent out a flash of voltage only once every two seconds or so. Ben kept time to that music with a loud croak every two seconds or so. Pigs were lounging under the trees at the far end of their pasture, but they heard Ben’s call for help and came at a dead run to see what was up.
Fifteen young pigs came to a sliding stop, forming a semicircle around Ben and trying to make sense of what they saw. But the rooster just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and the most adventurous pig stepped forward to take a sample. The effect was immediate with a loud squeal and pig retreat. Undaunted, each of the other fourteen had to follow suit.
Ben spent a humiliating and featherless winter, hiding in the back corner of the chicken coop, but was physically okay. Mentally, not so good. And those hogs? Well, they never had
a taste for chicken again- even when the chickens were wading around in the porridge right in front of their noses.
There’s a lesson in this, but it’s a little confusing.