So
there I was, minding my own business, thinking I could have a normal
farm day. (I know, I know—rookie mistake.) We’d had rain like it
was trying to re-flood the Earth. Puddles became ponds. Mud became
quicksand. And the pigs? Oh, they were living their best swamp life.
The electric fence
around the pig pen had gone all sad and droopy, like an overcooked
spaghetti noodle. It needed to be tightened up. So I got clever: I
distracted the pigs with food—a classic move in the “how to avoid
being trampled” handbook—and snuck into their pen to fix the
fence.
About halfway
through my mission, my left boot made a bold decision to abandon the
rest of me. It stuck firmly in the mud while my body kept moving
forward with the grace of a drunken giraffe. What followed can only
be described as interpretive dance meets panic attack—arms flailing
like airport ground crew on espresso, one leg locked in the mud
muttering, “I live here now,” while the other thrashed about like
it was auditioning for Riverdance.
Then came the moment
gravity won. And somehow, despite my forward motion, I ended up flat
on my back like a turtle flipped upside down. Don’t ask me how.
Newton himself would’ve thrown his apple and said, “Nah, that
ain’t right.”
And this wasn’t
just any mud. This was pig mud—a luxurious blend of topsoil,
rainwater, leftover slop, and pig poo, aged to perfection. The kind
of smell that grabs your nostrils and shouts, “WELCOME TO THE FARM,
BABY!”
As I lay there,
auditioning for Swine
Survivor,
I tried to figure out how to get up without adding more pig-based goo
to my person. That plan lasted exactly five seconds, because the
pigs, now done eating, decided to investigate. And by investigate, I
mean gallop toward me like a snorting stampede of short-legged
hippos.
At this point,
survival instincts kicked in. I pushed myself up, now adding mud to
my arms and the front of my shirt. The pigs, sensing weakness (and
probably hoping I was a snack), took the opportunity to notice the
fence was completely down. Off they went on a joy-filled, mud-slicked
jailbreak.
I stared at their
chunky behinds disappearing into the distance and thought, “Well. .
. at least now I can fix the fence without anyone chewing on my
ears.”
I wrangled the fence
back into place, which was easier said than done, considering I was
moving like a Roomba with a drinking problem. The pigs actually
stopped running and ambled back to watch—not out of concern, heaven
forbid, but with the quiet curiosity of creatures wondering whether
to intervene or just let nature run its course.
Just when I thought
I might actually finish the job and slink away with a shred of
dignity—BAM!—the right boot betrayed me too. Apparently, it
couldn’t stand the separation anxiety and decided to join its
partner in muck-based rebellion.
Now I’m wallowing
around in my socks, which instantly became one with the mud,
absorbing every earthy, squishy, pig-poo-soaked molecule. I swear I
heard them sob, resigning themselves to their fate. Every step made a
squelch so loud it echoed. My socks were no longer socks—they were
now biohazards.
At this point, my
feet were wet, my boots were buried somewhere around ankle-deep, and
I was just slogging through the muck with the grace of a toddler
wearing oversized flippers. I wasn’t fixing a fence—I was
starring in a one-woman mud wrestling match, and the mud was winning.
Then I spotted a
broken fence post nearby—blessedly pointy on one end and sort of
solid on the other. Did I hesitate? Not for a second. I snatched it
up and used it like a walking stick-slash-battle staff, stabbing it
into the mud for balance like a deranged farm hobbit crossing the
Misty Mountains of Pig Filth.
I looked like
Gandalf’s muddier cousin, limping through the sludge yelling, “YOU
SHALL NOT PASS!”—mostly to the pigs, who were eyeing me like I
might be the second course. Then, like a grain-based pied piper, I
lured those porky escapees back into their pen with the promise of
more grain. Pigs are easily manipulated—just like me, apparently.
I squelched my way
back to the house—mud oozing out of my socks and clinging to my
backside like a diaper at DEFCON 1. My hair, once long and lovely,
was now a mud curtain. There was mud on my face, my neck, my soul.
I hollered into the
house, “EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!” and proceeded to strip down
outside like a feral cavewoman. Modesty has absolutely no place when
covered with pig mud. I walked to the shower stark naked, trailing
clumps of pig pen behind me.
Three full rounds of
scrubbing and I still smelled like Eau
de Hog Heaven.
So I did what any desperate woman would do: I grabbed my teenage
grandson’s Ax body wash. If that stuff can mask the teenage boy
stench of dirty socks, football practice, and puberty sweat, surely
it could handle a little pig manure.
The clothes got
hosed down, washed, bleached, and blessed by a priest.
The gloves still
stank and got tossed straight into the trash. Turns out pig mud is
like glitter—once it’s in your life, it never fully leaves. And
the boots? They died as they lived: in a pit of muck. I didn’t even
try to save them. I just saluted and whispered, “Thank you for your
service.” I’d wanted new ones anyway. To my knowledge, they’re
still buried out there, unless the pigs ate them.
So, next time you
hear someone say, “Farm life must be so peaceful,” just know that
somewhere out there, a woman is flailing in pig mud, losing her boots
and her dignity, while pigs laugh in the face of her misguided
efforts.
The
moral of the story?
Never trust mud.
Always bring extra
clothes.
And keep your
teenage grandson’s body wash locked and loaded.
