In the midst of normal-looking chickens sitting in the shade this morning were ominous little piles of feathers. M and I asked a farm worker what was up, and he said some chickens had been escaping at night and falling prey to either a fox or a weasel. They plan to reinforce the fencing today.
The baby pigs are now several weeks old and average about 18 inches long. They race around the field in packs; they roll and tumble and sleep in piles. The mothers are looking worn out. They escape from the babies by lying in the mud puddles, which the babies seem afraid to enter.
Yesterday one of the biggest boldest of the piggies put his toes into the puddle:
He eventually waded up to a mother and nudged her ear. She batted him away and went back to dozing.
He sat in the puddle and squealed until the two mothers reluctantly dragged themselves up and out of the puddle. By then around twenty other babies were gathered at the edge of the puddle watching and squealing. The mothers plopped down a few feet beyond the pond and in seconds the babies swarmed over them, nursing wildly while the mamas went back to sleep.