Ah, turkey processing season. That magical time of year when you think, Just a few more birds, and we can finally catch my breath. But no, friends, the farm had other plans for me this chilly Saturday morning.
I woke up early, bracing for a day of gobbling chaos, when the universe decided to throw us a curveball. As we stepped outside, coffee in hand and half a plan in my head, we were greeted by an unusual sound. Not the familiar cluck cluck gobble gobble of turkeys but the unmistakable chorus of squeals.
Cue a slow-motion, sprint to the barn stalls as Sean yelled out “we have pigs!” Sure enough, there was Mary, our ever-surprising sow, lounging in her pen with a look that could only be described as smug. Surrounding her were 11 tiny piglets, each one more adorable (and distracting) than the last. Time to call in reinforcements.
Let’s be clear: we were hoping Mary would not farrow yet. Our carefully crafted spreadsheet and livestock plan said she may have another week. But Mary, being Mary, decided spreadsheets are for city folk.
So there I was, standing in my muck boots, realizing that our day was no longer about turkeys. Nope. It was all about piglets.
The Piglet Shuffle
Have you ever tried to wrestle eleven wiggly, squeaky newborns into a warm, safe corner and clip their cords while their very proud, 600-pound mother eyes you like a hawk? It’s a dance—a chaotic, muddy, borderline slapstick comedy routine. Mary kept nudging them back toward her, while we frantically tried to set up a heat lamp, clean bedding, and a makeshift piglet nursery.
Turkeys? What Turkeys?
By the time we finished setting Mary and her brood up, the turkeys were not happy. They stood by their pen, glaring at me like a row of grumpy old men waiting for their morning paper. “Just give me a minute!” I shouted at them, fully aware that yelling at poultry is the first sign of losing it.
But, of course, the day wouldn’t let us off that easy. As we trudged back toward the turkeys, the big tom turkey decided it was his time to shine. He was not going quietly into the night. After a lengthy and exhausting dance that included a heroic amount of flapping wings and flaying talons, the farmer prevailed.
Things Never Go as Planned
Eventually, the turkeys got processed (though not without some choice words muttered under my breath), Mary and her piglets settled in for a nap, and I finally sat down to reflect on the morning’s chaos.
Here’s the thing about farming: plans are suggestions, and the animals are the real decision-makers. You can have your spreadsheets and timelines, but at the end of the day, it’s all about rolling with the punches—and occasionally wrestling a turkey or two.
As I sit here, reflecting on this journey, I can’t help but laugh. Because, really, what else can you do? It’s all part of the wild, unpredictable, utterly exhausting joy of life on the farm.
And hey, now I’ve got new piglets and a story to tell. What more could I ask for?
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