It was our first week in the country and all I could do was stand at the kitchen window and stare into 20 acres of ungrazed woods. Never trampled, never gnawed, never poisoned. All the wildflowers Iowa was meant to offer up. The forest canopy was just opening so spikes of sunlight pierced the woods, illuminating the carpet of Virginia bluebells as far as I could see. This had been a good decision! Our neighbors in town had added a room over their garage, and the brick wall was going to be our only view of the world. And when their grandma moved into the new room, she was close enough so that we were pretty aware of how she was doing most days. Time to get out!
Our lane is 1000 ft. long and even then, it goes out to a road that most people wouldn't risk driving on. No Girl Scouts with cookies, no teenagers with Bibles, no school board candidates. Just us and the bluebells. And an owl. And the pond.
Still, it was heartening to see our very first visitor coming to welcome us. A red truck appeared over the crest of our lane and coasted down to the house. I think coasting might have been its top performance––this was a very old truck with high wooden sides on the back. It squealed to a stop––several times. Luckily the final lurch was just shy of our garage doors. I went out to greet our guests.
As I opened the gate, both truck doors opened with a scraping of metal on metal that cauterized my tympanic membranes. Two very tall men got out as though they lived in slow motion. They both were shaped like those old metal tops we used to play with, the ones that have a crank you pump up and down. They had on bib overalls which suited them because you don't have to snap those pesky grippers at the waist. You should, but you don't have to.
"Hello!" My greeting floated on out into the meadow unacknowledged. They walked to the back of their truck. I moved closer and noticed that between the wooden slats of the truck there was a sea of pink hair. I went around to the tailgate by the boys. There was a hog in the back of that truck that filled it front to back, side to side. This hog must have weighed 400 pounds. My husband hovers around 200, and he'd have been the runt in this litter. I may have been new to the country, but I had worked on a gynecology unit and I was quite sure I was looking at the south end of a north-going sow. The question was why?
Not much time to ponder that question. One of the fellows held out a cottage cheese box. I peered inside. It held a chunk of red, quivering tissue-like material about the size of a plum.
"What is it?" You think I asked that question, right? Nope. He asked me.
"Got me. What is it?" I asked. The two looked at each other with profound disappointment, maybe even tinged with disgust. They stared at me like I'd just wasted their time.
"Ain't you a vet?" the heretofore silent one asked.
"Uh, no. I'm a nurse. A hospice nurse." And thank god for that! "Where'd it come from?"
"Fell out of her this morning," the more loquacious one said.
They got back in the truck, shaking their heads. Clearly, this was a big let-down for them. I guess if things like that are falling out of your hog, a vet next door would be a real godsend. The truck labored to haul the boys and their girl up the driveway. I went back into the house.
At last we had some interesting neighbors. The view beyond the brick wall was starting to get very interesting.
