Pigs.  They are deceiving.  They look like a 1971 Ford Pinto, have the speed of a cheetah and are harder to hang onto than a bull at a rodeo.

It was time to muck out the pig stall, which means I have to get the big wheelbarrow in the pen without losing a pig.  My usual routine is to distract them by moving their food bowls to the back of the pen. Then I run around, prop open the gate, shove the wheelbarrow in and close the gate before they even know what happened.  When the wheelbarrow is full, I do the same thing.

Thing were going smoothly.  I had the wheelbarrow precariously filled with a lopsided load of manure and the pigs were busy eating their feed.  I propped open the stall gate, started backing the wheelbarrow out and…

{dun, dun, dun}

The UPS man pulled up the barn driveway, setting off a chain reaction.

The dogs, who heard the truck, know it’s their job to announce every visitor that comes on the property.  Only this time, they were standing right at the stall gate and their abrupt barking startled the pigs, causing them to run willy nilly in every direction.  Muscles (the biggest pig) made a beeline for the opening, but panicked and crashed headlong into the wheelbarrow, with just enough force to tip it on its side.  The racket sent the other pigs into a frenzy and they proceeded to stampede right out of the stall and head down the aisle straight toward the open cow door.

Fortunately, a row of cow stanchions stood between the hysterical pigs and freedom.  I took off like a shot, running like an Olympic athlete toward a set of hurdles, trying to get to the open door before the pigs.  Only, I’m not an Olympic athlete and the gate I hurdled was much too high.

Half way through my mid-air leap, the loop on my pants got caught on the gate latch.  I came crashing down on all fours, onto the floor on the other side of the gate, which happened to be covered in cow manure.  Dazed, but not deterred, I jumped to my feet, at which point all the manure on my pants slide down into my boots.  I slipped and slid my way to the door, pulled it closed and sent up a silent thank you.

Now, came the other hard part – I still had loose pigs in the barn.

I skated my way back through the cow manure, OPENED the gate and WALKED down the aisle toward the pig stall.  Much to my chagrin, Itchy was already back in the pen, enthusiastically scratching her rear end against the tipped over wheelbarrow.  Lonely Guy was in the back with his head buried in the feed bucket and Muscles was standing with the dogs by the stall gate.  I gave him a gently shove and he trotted happily back in with the others.

I swung the gate closed, walked out of the barn (cow manure squishing between my toes) and picked up the package that was left on the bench.

Turns out, the damn thing wasn’t even for me, but for my relative up the road.