Texas Equine Veterinary Association

ONLY IN RURAL AMERICA by Bo Brock, DVM, DABVP Friday nights in the fall can mean only one thing—high school foot- ball. All over America, fans flock on cool eve- nings to cheer for their boys as the "pigskin" is passed, kicked and handed off. This Friday night was no different, except, perhaps, for the type of pigskin that was involved. The phone rang about three o'clock. It was a concerned pig owner. It sounded as if one of his prizewinning show hogs had developed a cyst after a recent castration. His voice was filled with the tone of "too many things to do" as he described how hopelessly cluttered his schedule was for the next few days. "Do you reckon you could meet me at the football game tonight and fix that pig for me?" was the question he posed. The silence hung as I contemplated the request. "I figure that the stadium is about halfway between us, and I sure would appreciate it if you could help me out here," he said. A sarcastic "great" was the first thing to enter my mind in the seconds that passed as I formulated an answer for this request. How was I going to do surgery on a pig, in the dark, at a six-man football game? It was freezing cold, and besides, I had already made plans with the family for this evening. My mind was telling me this was a dumb idea, but duty called and I kinda felt sorry for this fellow after hearing the sob story that preceded the far-fetched request. It was eight o'clock and pitch-black when I arrived at the foot- ball field. Six-man football in West Texas can be very competitive or an absolute blowout. When you have only forty-two kids in the entire high school, it is sometimes hard to round up even six boys who want to play football. The scoreboard read twenty-eight to nothing in the second quarter. The stands were sparsely filled with a few heavily clothed fans who, I could tell, were blowing frost with each exhale as I pulled up to the visiting team's end zone. There, parked under the last set of lights illuminating the field, was the trailer filled with my mission. I was amazed that this guy had parked a trailer in the end zone of a football game and even more amazed that no one had asked him to move it. But in these little football fields, it is kinda hard to tell where the parking lot ends and the football field begins. "I figured that was the best light in the county," he said. "If you need some help, just holler. We'll be setting right over there. Our boy is playing quarterback tonight and we don't want to miss a play. Oh, by the way, some of our neighbors threw in a few more pigs that just need castrating." Here is the situation: I am about to work on a trailer full of pigs, by myself, on a freezing Friday night, in the end zone of a six-man football game. To make matters worse, the pigs weigh about 120 pounds apiece. The "great" that had filled my mind earlier now had gone from sarcastic to disgusted. I gathered all the tools needed for such an undertaking and en- tered the trailer. It didn't take long for the squealing and fighting to get started. I entered the back compartment of the trailer first and determined to finish this bunch before I went to the front compart- ment. They screamed and rocked the trailer as each injection of sedative went in. Ten minutes later, I was done and ready to go on to the critters in the front. As I opened the gate leading deeper into the trailer, I real- ized that there was just one pig there. He was a monster. Hanging out of his back end was an infected "cord" that was just begging to be cut off. I sure hated to have to sedate such a large pig on this freezing night simply to snip off a little cord that had swollen. I contemplated my options carefully and decided it would be safer for the pig if I just snared his nose and snipped the cord off. It would take just a second and would be painless, almost like giving a Band-Aid a quick jerk instead of slowly pulling it off. I set about snaring the critter. We bounced off every wall of that trailer as I missed time and time again. That rascal had obviously been snared before and didn't like it a bit. The more I tried and missed, the more determined I became to catch him. The trailer rocked, and the pig screamed. Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, I captured the monster. I was covered with pig excrement as I secured the screaming pig to the trailer. It took less than a sec- ond to remove the cyst, and I set the pig free. My ears were ringing from five minutes of noise that rivaled a 747 taking off. My shoul- der was aching from being bounced off the walls and stepped on a few times. Nevertheless, the fact that it was finally over quelled the discomfort as I headed for the back gate to make my exit. As I stepped out into the light of the end zone and brushed myself off, I couldn't help but notice how quiet it was. I was begin- ning to think that the game was over and everyone had left, when a thunderous cheer met me. They had stopped the game, and the referee was standing on the five-yard line looking with concerned eyes at me. Both stands were cheering for me, as they evident- ly had found more entertainment in screaming pigs in a rocking trailer than in the lopsided game. The players were behind the ref, clapping along with the fans. As I drove home, I couldn't help but think that nowhere but in rural America could you stop a football game for a pig castration. www.texasequineva.com • page 25

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