Piggy Time

The girls picked out their 4-H pigs a couple weeks ago. If only I could share the smell of pig-farm with you. Count your lucky stars that I cannot. And don't tell me you know how stinky pigs are until you've been in a smallish building with a few hundred of them. Then, and only then can you truly know the joy of a pig farm.

So after the pig-picking process is over, it's time to load up the cute little guys in the stock trailer and drive home. At this point, you're grateful to be away from the pig farm smell, but realize quickly that you can hardly stand to smell yourself. We've learned to bring clean shoes to change into because you don't want to track anymore piggy smell into the vehicle than absolutely necessary. But it doesn't seem to matter because the odor has permeated every article of clothing and every strand of hair on the body.

So you just breathe shallowly and run for the shower as soon as you get home. I had to wash my hair (with liberal amounts of shampoo) three times before the smell of (wet) pig went away. I kid you not. Three times!

I am eternally grateful that Glenn raises cows rather than pigs. Next time I am tempted to complain of his cows stinking (and I will be tempted), I will try to remember how lovely they smell in comparison.