We laid their troughs in close proximity to the fence so we wouldn’t have to actually go in to feed them. In preparation for their arrival, a small shelter had been built out of scrap lumber kicking around the farm, and it was packed with fresh, clean oat straw (I’ve always thought it a great pity that straw doesn’t taste as good as it smells). A small division of about an acre with three low strands of electric poly-wire and step-in posts, they were duly incarcerated. We unloaded them without incident into their new pasture. Our Pastured Pigs Arrive at the Homestead I’m not sure what my husband was thinking, but I was wondering how we were going to handle them (particularly the boar) once they were bigger. Bruised and battered we drove home in silence. Coated in slick grass, mud, and pig excrement we finished. The mothers proved not to be as fearsome as they seemed, and while they barked insults at us as we hurled ourselves upon their weaned children, none attacked. Given the circumstances, we agreed later, it was amazing it had only taken us one hour per pig caught. They were still with their mothers and the sows (roughly the size of our sofa at home) glared at us with belligerent, glittering eyes. Like something out of nightmare, enormous black shapes materialized from the shadows. “ I brought a bucket,” he said helpfully and proceeded to bang on it with a stick and call for the pigs. Indeed it appeared not only did we have to find these piglets in the grass, but also attempt to catch them in a roughly ten-acre pasture. “They’re in there,” the farmer jerked his thumb. With sinking hearts, we trudged out to a lush, half-flooded late-spring pasture whose grasses almost brushed our midsections. The fact that the people, despite expecting us, had not rounded up said pigs should have served as a red flag. We hooked up the trailer and set out on a three-hour drive through the beautiful rolling hills of Cypress River, Manitoba, to pick up our piggies. At this point, we felt only a small hesitation at dealing with a boar when we had no knowledge of how to deal with pigs, but experience is the best teacher, we reasoned. After locating a breeder we decided on one boar and two gilts (a young, female pig). Hardy and good mothers, they were our pigs. Of British origins, they were ideally suited to pasture life. Research promoted the Berkshire and Tamworth breeds for our circumstances. With no barns and only small shelters, our pastured pigs would have to overwinter well and come through at the end of it still able to raise a litter. Living in Manitoba, Canada, our winters were long and harsh. Deciding on the right breed was important to us. We planned on raising them in our pastures and oak forests, supplementing their foraging with soaked grains and garden waste. The money from all their grown piglets sold would more than pay for their upfront purchase price and then we’d be ankle-deep in weaners for the years to come. Upon further discussion, we felt we’d be foolish to pay for weaners (weaned piglets, a state of matter about eight to ten months prior to “wieners”) every year and decided to jump in with both feet and purchase breeding stock. It was a brilliant plan and as far as we could see, simple to execute. We would raise a few at once, keep one for our own freezer and sell the rest at a profit, making the whole venture self-sustaining. They would, we reasoned, supplement our small but growing farm income. Our pastured pigs were not required to be “mortgage-lifters” as they once were in barnyards across North America. No other animal possesses such efficient feed conversion. Well-read and well-intentioned, my husband and I had discussed beforehand how no homestead could be complete without the addition of pigs. Early in our farming venture, the first year we kept pastured pigs is one that stands out in my memory.
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