Tag Archives: pigs

When our thirteen-year-old daughter, Meg, decided for her 4H project she would spend her summer building a pigpen and raising a pig, we celebrated.  We were teenagers once, we teach them, and so we know them. Teenagers do drugs, have sex, cause trouble, talk loudly, swear randomly, steal stuff, and generally, protest everything, so when our teenage daughter chose to raise a pig, we celebrated. My husband, Dale,  and I have taught high school for over 30 years, so we have some experience with this age-group, and go figure, we like them.  Therefore, when Meg wanted a pig, we celebrated.  We knew she would be busy all summer long and we would have less teenage angst (read—no trouble).

First thing, we had to do was build a pen. My husband built the room addition to our house, which means he knows construction and since we lack in sons (not that this should EVER matter), our daughters learned how to build.  Our girls built everything with their dad—tree houses and room additions and now the pigpen. Meg and Dale leveled the plot, dug the holes, poured the concrete, set the posts, and attached the animal corral. They made the pig feeder out of wide PFC pipe, drilled holes for the spigot, anchored the straps, and attached it to the corral. They ran the water line from the well to the feeder. They even painted the sides of the pigpen to make this like a home. All in a weekend to be ready for the homecoming of the pig.

Our 4H leader met us at the pig farm, where we scouted the squirming, squealing, and smelling spring piglets. We had no idea what made for a good-looking pig, only those in agriculture know this. We “went” with pretty. Ag people look for nice lines, good hocks, strong legs, and wide shoulders.  We looked at the piglets and chose for cuteness, of course. Meg picked out an American Landrace, a special variety of pig, the color of Babe, not quite as amazing as Wilbur, and named him Rufus. The morning Rufus arrived at his new home, my husband wrestled the 102-pound squealing piggy out of the pickup truck and muscled him into his new pen. That was the first time that Dale wrenched his back, and except for this minor mishap, the pig project seemed easy enough.

Our 4H leader, Carolyn H., said we did not have to exercise our piggy for two weeks. Well, shoot, if this pig was going to be Grade A meat by fair time (in three months), he needed a workout. Dale and Meg took Rufus for a “walk” hours after his move and nearly lost him, as Rufus raced back down the dirt road trying to find his old home. That was the second time Dale wrenched his back.

Two weeks later, we tried walking Rufus again. With the help of the “co-pig leader,” Rick W., a 280+ lb. firefighter and former football lineman, we learned to “walk” Rufus. I use “walk” loosely.  Initially, the pig does not enjoy “walking” anywhere, and the pig-owner must push, pull, shove, or drag the animal down a path. Pigs are intelligently designed and they know they do not need to work for their food. Pigs train their owners in no time to bring food and water twice daily. Why walk?

After weeks of practice, though, pigs begin to tolerate, even enjoy their walks. Rufus would sprint down the path, barking the entire way, and leave all of us in the dust. His favorite part of the walk was finding rocks and river silt to munch on—a sort of sandy smorgasbord. That was how we got our exercise that summer and how Rufus grew to 242 pounds by fair time.

Everyone took part in the fair. Allie cleaned the stall and took orders at the 4H snack bar, of course, not on the same shift. Meg washed and groomed Rufus until he glistened. Sam showed Rufus in peewee showmanship, while Dale and I helped in the 4H food booth, serving tri-tip. Rufus made Group I Market Hog and Meg earned $6.75 per pound.

It was a great experience, though sad at the end. He was a nice pet—wrong attitude. Pigs raised by 4Hrs are not pets, but that first year, that first pig, was our pet. My girls and I cried at the end of the fair, until that check was deposited, and plans were made for the next year’s fair.