So You Want to Pick Up Pig Poop

Or maybe you don’t. This would be because you’ve never done it before. If you had, you would want to get back out there. 

Picking up pig poop is one of the most peaceful things you can do. If Patsy and Judy, the Trouble Sisters, decide to leave you alone.

Assuming they do—which tempts fate, as they love nothing more than confounding human assumptions--you’re out there in the field, with the mountain rising just beyond, surrounded by white and yellow flowers, sleeping pigs, and dragonflies helicoptering through the air.

It is a pig-poop meditation. I’m surprised the farm isn’t over-run with Buddhist monks. It’s right up their alley--a “chop wood, carry water” thing but with poop.

Of course Judy comes over to say hello. First to the wheelbarrow, which to her is a giant scratching post that has the added benefit of turning over and dumping out poop—for the human this is Trouble; for Judy it’s Mission Accomplished.

I run back to the wheelbarrow and hold it steady against the onslaught of Judy’s scratching. It’s battening down the hatches on a ship during a storm at sea, but the wheelbarrow and I make it out untipped. Patsy gives up and lays down on her side. This is universal pig language for “stop whatever nonsense you’re doing and scratch my belly.” 

I oblige. Scratching pig bellies is a meditation too. You can know you’ve succeeded when the pig closes her eyes, yawns and stretches.

Mission Accomplished. 

Pogo comes out to investigate on his way to the med center. A break must be taken to pet him.

Another break to notice a small tomato plant that has grown from seeds the pigs eat, then poop out. 

The seeds will grow given half a chance. Which is about all the pigs allow the plants before they eat them again. And poop them out again.

It’s the perfect cycle of life.

If the field were full of monks in saffron and maroon robes, each with a pooper-scooper (discovered to be the best pig-poop utensil, after much experimenting with shovels, small brooms, dustpans and rakes), we could ring a gong to start and to stop. Or just close one of the gates in the goat and sheep barn. They sound like gongs on their own, making the barn seem that much more like a temple.

At the farm’s annual Blessing of the Animals, it seems we have the order reversed. The blessings should actually come from the animals to us, and not the other way around, no matter what monk or priest or shaman is there to do the blessing.

Back in the pig field, my wheelbarrow fills up slowly. Swallows pass me on the way to the barn. The yellow butterflies gather on the poop in the sun. Pigs are asleep surrounded by grass in the field. Pigs are asleep in the barn. The only sound is the creak of the wheelbarrow as I push it out of the field. 

I empty the wheelbarrow into the tractor bucket and hang up the pooper scooper for another day. Meditation is a journey that changes you. Maybe someday the monks will come, pick up pig poop and explain why. 

TODAY'S NEWS:

Truffle the hen died this morning. She'd had a mass in her belly six months ago. Jenny had tried to drain it, but it was solid and nothing could be done. We put her back out to roam freely with her friends, Peanut Butter, Edie and Hetty, not knowing how much time she had left with us. 

For over six months, she lived her life just the same as before. Then on Saturday, Francesco noticed she was huddled in a corner in the pig barn. We brought her in and the next morning she was gone. 

But we had those six extra months with her, much longer than anyone would have predicted. 

We thank her for sharing her life with us and with her other chicken friends. 

The barn feels empty without her.