We go to church on Friday nights. Since David works in town, we usually meet at church. This week, I was waiting for him to meet me when I got a call from my neighbor.
Yes. That’s right. Not only do I have my neighbor’s cell number, we are also Facebook friends.
I am that cool. But this you already knew.
Me: Hello?
Neighbor: Taylor?
Me: Yes?
Neighbor: This is Buzz. Your neighbor. How are you?
Me: I’m fine! How are you?
Buzz (chuckling) (Why? Stay tuned.) Well, I’m up here by my shop and . . .
A million things are going through my head now. In my mind, I am doing a virtual “roll call,” if you will , of the animals.
Did I remember to close up the chicken coop? Yes.
Did the rabbit gate get closed up? Pretty sure.
Was the dog put in the garage? Yes. The cats, too.
Did the pig fence get closed? Yes. I did it myself.
Me: Ok . . .
Buzz: And it looks like all your pigs are running around.
Well, drat! That can’t be good. Especially since I was the one who made sure the pig gate was all closed up.
Me: Oh, dear.
Buzz: Are ya home?
Me: No. I’m almost an hour away.
Moments later, David pulled up and I had to send him immediately home. Because, hello!?!?
It isn’t neighborly to have your seven, OH YES, seven pigs running amok! It’s like the number one rule in The Neighbor Handbook.
Thou Shalt Not Allow Your Pigs To Trespass on Thine Neighbor’s Land.
Seven pigs. Seriously. Because my husband cannot handle doing anything on a small scale. Turns out they broke their electric fence and rooted underneath.
That’s right. I just said “rooted.”
So this was the fun convo I got to have with every Tom, Dick, and Harry at church on Friday.
Tom/Dick/Harry: Taylor! Where’s David tonight?
Me: Oh, well, our neighbor called and our pigs got loose. He had to rush home and wrangle them up. The rascals.
Tom/Dick/Harry: (crickets chirping)
Me: Oh! Have I not told you? We raise pigs now.
Tom/Dick/Harry: Do you, now? How many do y’all have?
Me: Only seven.
Tom/Dick/Harry: (crickets chirping)
Me: I am still normal, I promise.
So that was fun.
On Saturday, the plan was to load the bulldozer onto a flatbed trailer and have the truck tow the bulldozer to the mechanic. I was to follow in the sweet minivan because the truck also needed to spend some time with the mechanic.
Life. Not cheap.
David gets the bulldozer loaded up and the truck hitched up when, lo and behold, the truck dies.
It just . . . dies. With no hope of a resurrection or anything.
David comes up to my window and asks if I would mind terribly if, instead, I towed the truck to the mechanic.
Me. Taylor Maliblahblah. The tower. Of a truck.
I looked at David almost as if he were an insane, crazy person. And rightfully so.
He sensed my look of disdain and assured me that he would unhitch the bulldozer first. And I, dear reader, had to wonder if he, my beloved, was even considering the minivan towing the truck/dozer/trailer combo in the first place.
Wouldn’t surprise me.
Now, readers. I have been married to this man for 12 and a half years and I cannot even begin to tell you how many times we have had to do this fun towing activity.
Obviously we can’t get enough.
From experience, I must inform you all that it is much better to be the “Tower” than the “Towee.” So, there you go. If you are ever faced with a choice, be the person in the lead. It sounds worse, but truly, it is not.
I am sure we were quite the site . . . a Honda Odyssey towing a 1-ton truck down the highway.
I almost died from stress. But I didn’t. And I lived to blog about it.
You’re welcome.
You live such an exciting life! Holla!!!!!!!! 😉
Pigs running amok! Rooting their way out, terrorizing the neighbors! Oh, what a life! Towing a truck?! You ma’am are officially “countrified” lol
I have frequently been involved in assisting my husband in pulling one or more of our vehicles out of a snowbank. We get a lot of snow in northern BC. I much prefer to be the “puller” than the “pullee”. I would really have preferred it the last time it happened. Wade got stuck in our yard and I was designated to steer while he pulled the truck out. After about four unsuccessful attempts, he comes over and asks me, “What gear are you in?”
I was in reverse.
Serves him right for never dusting his gauges off.
Well, shoot. I thought you were going to tell us about a weekend AWAY with David. If only you could have been that lucky. Instead, it was just the usual stuff.
😉
HA! I had the same thought.
I love how in response to, “How many do y’all have,” you threw out the response, “Only 7.” As opposed to 8 or 250 I suppose.
Also… Which is worse–a pig round-up or rabbit wrangling?
Just wondering.
Towing anything makes me hyperventilate and causes excessive sweating in my pit areas. However, being towed by anything makes me throw up and use language I shouldn’t oughtta use. I now have AAA and sweat and throw up a lot less.
They rooted their way out? Maybe that’s a divine sign that it’s time to replace (NOT add) the pigs with a less, um, wise animal?
At least you got to be the tow-er. Hope the week goes much smoother with no towing involved.
After snorting my coffee, I decided to tell my husband about your escapades. It seems your husband married the correct woman because my husband’s immediate response was, “You would have killed me by now. I would definitely have been on the couch when the first pig arrived, but by all that, you’d have killed me.” Ha, ha. Wise man who apparently knows me so well. 🙂 Though I feel guilty laughing at your adventures in my nice pig-free world…
Those darn pigs!
If you add up the fencing feed water trouble gas etc I wonder how much it costs to grow a pound of finished trimmed pork. Glad you have an understanding neighbor. He must not be the one with the gun. How’s the chicken butt by the way?
David married the right woman……I don’t know if you married
the right man? heeeee 🙂
Perhaps it’s time to whip up a nice baked ham with a side of bacon? Just a thought : )