Pigs and my near-death experience

 

Every year for the last 4, the oldest wild child, the Drama Queen, has "raised" a pig for Ag class. This was Miss Porki, two years ago. An absolutely lovely Hampshire sow with a butt like Beyonce. And delicious. We have a custom butcher just up the road, very nice people. After all the Ag shows, you can contract with them to come pick up your animal and process it. (They also do the dispatching of said animal).

 

Now I put "raised" in parentheses for a reason. During the nice weather, and during Ag class, the pigs are DQ's responsibility. During bad weather, feeding, tending and cleaning up the pig stall is Mom's job. Miss Porki there was always a pleasure ~snort~ to care for, which made eating her a delicious revenge. Her thing was biting, and her favorite targets were my feet. One very, very cold day in December (-8 F with 30 mph winds out of the damned North), I braved the ice and cold to go feed her, add hay to her bed and check her heat lamp. Spoiled pig. I had one leg over the fence, and she was chewing on my boot, when I realized the other leg wasn't going over. A broken wire had caught the crotch of my jeans and I was STUCK. Couldn't go one way or the other.

 

I jerked my leg hard and heard the heart-rending rip as the fence tore a 4-inch opening in the crotch of my jeans. Unfortunately, it didn't dislodge the wire. A very warm part of my anatomy was flash frozen with a blast of -30 wind chill air; and I was not only stuck by my pants, I was afraid my happy whoo-haw was frozen to the metal fence. As I stood there, knowing that no one would be out there for hours (it was a Sunday morning, what I get for being a church-skipping unwashed heathen), I could see my headline:

 

Frigid Pussy: Local Woman Dies with Crotch Stuck to Pig Fence

 

In desperation, and with hypothermia setting in, I decided to cut my jeans loose with the little pocketknife I carried. Now, y'all know my history with sharp, pointy things, so you know this knife was about as sharp as a butter knife. I'm standing there, my gloves off, my fingers frozen, sawing away at my jeans between my legs. Close your eyes and visualize where my hands were and the motions... yeah, you've got it. I'm crying in frustration, tears and snot freezing on my face, tearing away at my jeans, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Scared the shit out of me. I jumped and spun around, in the process ripping my jeans free (and increasing the opening by another 4 inches). Porki, who'd been working my boot this whole time, gave a jerk, effectively deciding on which side of the fence I fell. Sitting on my ass in a pile of pig poop, all I could do was look up at the person who caught me in mid saw. It was DQ's Ag teacher, Mr. Cooper. He just grinned at me, shook his head and walked back to his pickup.

 

I got up, fed the stupid pig, added hay, changed the bulb in her heat lamp, all the while wind whistling through the hole in my jeans and my lacy pink thong. (That was the last time, nothing but thermals from then on.) Two months later, Porki was ham, and bacon, and ribs. Oh my.

 

So Terry in Fla, the answer is yes.