husband Fred performed a castration. I watched the boy carefully, concerned that he might
get queasy. Castration is not a messy procedure, but the way the pigs carry on, you would
think they were being burned alive.
He was about six or seven I guess, wearing overalls--the bib pockets stuffed full of God
knows what all little boys carry. He had one hand crammed in a hip pocket, restlessly
fiddling with something as very young boys tend to do. The red sucker he had plugged into
his mouth moved from one side of his jaw to the other, and he squinted in the morning
sunlight as he watched the process.
"Why ya hav'ta do that?" he asked bluntly, taking the sucker out of his mouth and holding the
stick pinched between thumb and forefinger as he waited for his answer. Three grownups all
started talking at once, each wanting to explain it in the most reasonable and gentle manner.
Fred took center stage. He did very well.
"Well ... it's like a sickness. If you don't cut out that part, they get mean and then you can't
handle 'em. It's not a big deal, they do it with calves and goats, too. But..." he said, meeting
the boys eyes, "not people ... not ever."
Fred is a father, and knows the importance of making such a distinction to a child. Especially
a young boy.
"Oh,” the boy replied.
The sucker went back in and then came right back out.
"Does it hurt?" he pressed, wincing slightly.
"Well," I took over, "I guess it has to hurt a little bit, but they are fine as soon as its over, and
it heals up pretty fast. I think it's more scary than anything."
"Oh.”
The sucker went back in. Father and son waited patiently while we disinfected the little boar.
Fred dropped the now useless family credentials from the pig, into a bucket at his feet and
we washed our hands in preparation of catching their pigs. The sucker came out again and I
cringed. I knew what the next question was going to be.
"What'cha gonna do with them now?" he asked, eyes serious as a heart attack as he studied
the contents of the bucket. Before I could say anything Fred launched into his standard
answer.
"Gonna make some soup, throw in a hambone or two, a few carrots. Good stuff."
Of course we were going to bury them as usual, but Fred has that tendency to tease; likes
nothing better to hear 'ooohh, gross, that's nasty', and so on.
The boy stood there holding that sucker in his hand as he mulled it all over, and then he met
Fred's eyes and smiled a wry little smile. He was not unaccustomed to the feeling of
someone tugging on his leg, apparently.
"Oh,” he said again after a moment or two, and then he looked up at his dad, and grinned.
" 'Mind me not to eat here," he said, almost but not quite preventing the little giggle that
escaped.
Back in went the sucker, and he smiled widely around the stick, clearly proud of the fact that
he had caught the joke. I thought we all were going to die laughing. I nudged Fred.
"You just met your match."
