Two buckets of hog feed flew skyward as my knees buckled. Down into the muck I went with corn and hog-finisher peppering me before a bucket clocked me on the noggin. The wife, when she finally managed to quit laughing, asked if she could do anything.

"Yeah, go get my rifle, I'm gonna shoot that son-of-a-bitch!"

"But he's nowhere near big enough yet."

Struggling to my feet, slinging mud off both hands, I grabbed the porker's hind legs. "He's as big as he's gonna get, I guaran-damn-tee you."

Her eyes widened. I wondered why; this being by no means the first time I'd made such a threat. Too late I realized she wasn't gawking at me. The eight-hundred pound mama sow had escaped the pen.

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