The sight of Irving’s trailer creaking backwards into the yard is a familiar one, though we don’t associate it with this season. Usually he arrives in November, as he did last year, delivering a boar to put with our saddleback sow. Mind you, the ground conditions today are not dissimilar, this spring mirroring last year’s early winter with its unending wet and mud.
Today’s delivery is of nine weaners – piglets around eight weeks old – and a mixture of gilts (females) and boars. It’s difficult to resist a smile as I peer through the vent on the trailer’s side. But the pleasure is bittersweet. Our sow farrowed in March. It was a straightforward evening’s work, notwithstanding the fact that she produced 15. She is a gentle creature and tolerant of assistance, but a primitive protectiveness takes over once she has shed the afterbirths, (two pieces, one from each horn of the uterus) so it is best to give her space. Besides, this was her fourth farrowing and she had proved herself the most diligent of mothers. A few fatalities are inevitable in a large litter, but over the next 24 hours, more came. Why? Everything appeared normal – she was lying with teats exposed, the piglets somnolently latched on.
