Piggery Pokery
Piggery Pokery
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday June 22, 2013
Gertie is my new creature of fascination at the family farm. I’ve never stood nose to snout with a 200-kilo pregnant pig before. Even her head is twice the size of mine. I couldn’t work out how her enormous girth didn’t topple those four spindly trotters.
I noticed how her giant belly jiggled and rippled as she scratched her bristly thigh against the metal grill of the trailer. I knew then we’d be friends because she made me feel petite. Really, the only attractive thing about her were the patterns in the veins of her ears, backlit in the afternoon sun. But I felt strangely maternal towards her – she was huffing and snorting, much like I did when heavily pregnant. I couldn’t believe this gargantuan lump of pork was herself only nine months old.
Gertie had been bought from an out-of-town piggery and the hour long ride in the back of a trailer was clearly not her idea of fun. Her loud grunts rang out over the front paddock as she arrived, causing much muddlement amongst the three free-range pigs who already call the farm home.
Bruce, Doris and Evelyn, at 6 months old, are swine teenagers – featherweights at 150 kilos apiece. Doris and Evelyn are best friends and adore their boar, Bruce. I can see why, as he sports a pair of testicles the size of rockmelons. But here was a new piece of tail to tempt Bruce. As the first whiff of the aromatic Gertie sailed downwind across the pig paddock, Bruce began pacing the fence, frothing at the snout.
My brother-in-law reversed the ute up to the yard and wrenched open the trailer gate. Gertie stumbled down the ramp. Bruce, squealing and grunting through his foaming beard, jammed his snout firmly in Gertie’s rump. Doris, in a jealous rage, rounded on Gertie, trying to sink her teeth into her rival’s hind leg.
Gertie took off round the yard trying to escape the fury of two envious sows and the lecherous boar. Sensing we might be in for some R-rated violence and/or sex scenes, I herded my 6-year-old son and his little sister into the ute: “Quick!” I yelled, “Hop in where it’s safe.” The cacophony of pig squeals almost drowned out the chorus of complaints from the back seat: “Mum! Mum! We can’t see!”
Gertie then made a snap decision.
She gave herself a good run-up and barged across the yard as fast as those gristly trotters would allow. The next thing I knew, she was hurling herself over the steel fence like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Front legs clear, her low slung belly caught the top rail. I winced, thinking of the embedded piglets, but she had just enough momentum to drag her hind legs up and over. Gertie landed clumsily on the freedom side of the fence. From inside their paddock, Bruce, Doris and Evelyn were struck mute as Gertie cantered off down the hill towards the dam.
Heading back to Perth that night, and with Gertie still on the run, we pleaded for regular updates on the escapee. Pigs are nothing new for my brother-in-law, who manages the farm. His father was once a butcher in Collie, renowned for his “Ding” sausages. The recipe was secret but those bangers earned folklore status in a town where snags are one of the five food groups.
Five days later the phone rang: “Gertie’s back! I went up to feed Bruce and the girls and there she was, snuffling around the yard like nothing happened!”
I suggested Gertie was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, and had decided she was better off befriending the swines who tried to attack her than going it alone in the bush.
A month later, and Gertie has farrowed. She is mother to three little pigs.
The kids and I save our vegetable peelings and burnt toast for her. We wade through the long grass in the old orchard collecting the apples felled by birds or chewed by possums. As Gertie hears the quad bike approach, she charges out of her half tank, upending her sleeping piglets.
I am revolted by her table manners, which remind me of dinners at home. Pig gluttony is grotesque but mesmerising. Gertie suctions up half a bucket of pellets and a large bowl of scraps, then she’s shoving her piglets out the way to see if I brought dessert.
The farm is harmonious once again: Bruce has gone off the boil now the piglets are permanently attached to Gertie’s pink bosoms. Doris and Evelyn are no longer green-eyed. We’re all basking in the glow of porcine motherhood. The kids and I hang around the pig pen watching Gertie tolerate the antics of her piglets. Her parental indifference is contagious: I barely react when my 3-year-old feeds Gertie a large slice of Quiche Lorraine.
I hope the children remember Gertie’s great escape. Few kids are lucky enough to witness 200 kilos of pork sailing over a metre high fence. Who says pigs can’t fly!