Pearls Before Swine

The little beady eyes of the farrier would be here any moment. The horses didn't need shodding. We wondered what the real purpose of his visit might be. None of us liked to meet him alone. We all stood in the farm yard, even those of us sworn to keep as far away from livestock as possible. We had to unite over this fearful visit.

The loud wind and nearby combines disguised the sound of his arrival. Our early warning systems - even the dog's superior hearing - was thus thwarted. We hovered round the yard nervously. We had strategically placed implements which we could grab if he appeared, to look busy. Though I hated the stuff, I felt that holding a forkful of manure was a good deterrent against the close proximity he sometimes forced upon us girls. We wished we could train the horses and dog to be naughty as a diversion.

We had sworn that none of us would invite him in for the cuppa he expected, no matter what hints he made about feeling parched or far from a kettle, or however much our cords of duty were touched by his weary looks or extra services rendered.

It was just those that we feared.

We had finished most of the work that needed doing in the yard by the time the little squeak happened. The crafty bugger had parked on the other side of the road, so that we didn't hear his car either. We figured that his opening the gate and driving into the yard gave us a minute of preparation time before actually having to face him.

But here he was, on foot and coming towards us with only a moments' notice.

We reached for our brooms and spade and looked as if we were mid deed which meant that we could not stop or be disturbed. I envied Clarinda having bowls full of food to carry to waiting beasts. I pleaded with her to take one, but carrying the pile of plastic bowls was clearly a one person job. She declined even needing an escort. That would leave Cerys on her own, who exhorted me to stay with her in the yard.

He was too near now for our mutterings and meaningful looks. The farrier nodded and touched his cap by way of greeting. In our best Suffolk accents, we grunted our reply. I ran for the outdoor tap and thrust an old pail under it. The metal being pounded by the incoming water made too much noise for us to speak. As I well knew.

Clarinda let the dog out. Our paranoid man hating mutt would surely rise to the occasion. But she didn't bark as much as we'd hoped, rather she sniffed unmentionables on the ground which had missed the wheelbarrow of muck.

Couldn't she sense our danger, his shiftiness?

"It's nearly milking time," I said to the farrier. "We can't really stop. You know how goats like to keep to a routine."

"Yes, I know how a girl doesn't like to kept waiting for her tits to be squeezed," the farrier letched, clearly meaning he thought humans yearned for his touch as much as the goats demanded their daily release of culminated fluids.

We looked at each other sharply but briefly, hiding the smirks of embarrassment, or in my case, outrage.

"That's not an acceptable thing to say," I said, feeling angry, and for once, refusing to allow myself to have to be content with the silent blushing titters until he had at last gone.

"Why isn't it acceptable? Don't you like men touching you?'

He came close and his horsey smell engulfed me.

This affront caused Cerys to rush out of the pig sty she was busy emptying a bucket of feed into, without shutting it. The great sow within pushed her snout through the battered unfastened door.

"Do you know what I think you girls need?" he said into my top.

I pulled back sharply and it was then I saw the pig, charging towards us with a high pitched squeal. Obviously my chats over the fence and my diligence in feeding her were paying off. Piggy loyally launched into the little pervy man and knocked him clean over. She stood over him snuffling as if to say, do you want me to trample you as well? If not - LEAVE!! Her array of swaying teats - the subject of this furore - added to her 1 tonne menace, like tassels of a war dance costume above his creased alarmed face. She seemed to be brandishing them as a lesson for his sexism, as if to alter his thoughts about mammary glands in a similar method to electrotherapy: that the memory of this terrible moment would plague him if ever he acted leeringly again.

The farrier got up, surprised, his little eyes darting with outrage. He knew by our unashamed cheers that we were on the pig's side and that he would get no sympathy. His visit had come to an abrupt and premature end. He turned with the slightest touch of his cap and muttered something in dialect that none of us wanted to understand.

"That'll be all from you," I said, finding my voice as he creaked the gate. The others looked aghast but we all now felt the cost of his low charges was met in our safety - and that cost could no longer be borne.

We never heard from him again. We had looked to those creatures known for their loyal protection of humans - our horses and dog - to save us, but it was the soft snouted mother of 16 who had been our rescuer.

Piggy got extra swill that day.