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ladynox25Back from a weekend at my parents' and having my "Bridal Facial" done. I don't seem to have had any reaction from this, which is good.
This weekend was apparently a weekend for wildlife. As some of you may know, my dad has been waging an ongoing war against wild hogs which occasionally tear up parts of his property. The week before last he actually shot one, sitting up at night in his stand down by the pond. It was a boar. This weekend he trapped two more. So of course, he got my mom and I to help him.
The intention was to move the two hogs from the trap into what he calls his "transporter"; a lighter weight trap that he could use to transport the pigs live. The first, and most important, consideration was safety--we definitely did *NOT* want these pigs getting out. For one thing, that would be immediately dangerous to us, and for another, once trapped, the pigs were now trap-wise and probably could never be caught again. The second consideration was to avoid stressing the pigs themselves. Although they are mean nasty critters, we didn't want to be cruel to them.
When we got up to the trap, we could see that these were still fairly young pigs. They were old enough to be separated from their mom, which was a good thing! None of use wanted to deal with these trapped pigs with the possibility that an enraged sow was waiting out there in the woods! However, they did not look old enough to breed--yet--which was also a good thing. My dad guessed that they were likely siblings and they both had domestic stock in their genes--we could tell this because both had a white strip over shoulders and extending down their front legs. Nevertheless they were wild, feral hogs, skittish and highly dangerous. The larger of the two, with greyish fur, was a young boar (I don't know if there is a specific term for it); the smaller, with brownish fur, was a young sow, (I think that's called a gilt).
My dad began to orchestrate the intended move. The first order of business was to move the transporter up against the trap so that both doors were abutting each other. Then I drove the Gator up against the end of the transporter, to anchor it in place. My mom got into the rear of the Gator and pulled the rope to open the door of the transporter. Then my dad opened the door of the trap, hoping that the animals would enter the transporter of their own accord. No such luck. In fact, the hogs seemed more inclined to go the other way--they kept running into the far wall of the trap.
So my dad called me over to hold the door open by way of the rope while he tried to get the hogs to move. He took a small wire rod he had and prodded the pigs. No luck. He got an orange flag out and waved it in their faces--more than once actually hitting the boar with it. No luck. He even drew his pistol and discharged it at the rear of the trap to try to scare the pigs. No luck. The sow ran into the transporter a few times but then ran out again. The boar, however, refused to budge. And every time my dad went around to the end of the trap to try to get him to move, the he tried to charge. He was afraid, but also by that time damned mad. I'm sure, if he had been able to get at us, he would have ripped us badly.
We were the homo sapiens here, weren't we?
By this time, both my mom and I were having trouble holding the ropes up--the doors were heavy and the ropes were hard to grip. My dad tied the rope of the trap up so that that door would stay up without me holding it and I joined him in the attempt to get the pigs to move. By this time, they were both badly stressed, to say the least, and were bleeding from the mouth--I assume they bit themselves in the ruckus. At any rate, my dad and I finally followed my mom's suggestion to go find some big limbs from the surrounding area and see if that would be better. Well, it did work, although the boar snapped my tree limb in two with his tusk, I think that the flying wood scared him enough and they both ended up in the transporter, finally.
However, that immediately presented a whole other set of problems, chief of which being that the wire mesh on the transporter had bigger holes than that of the trap. The holes weren't small enough for the pigs to get through, but with the sow, it was a near thing. Her entire head could fit through a hole, and that was enough to be very dangerous. And neither of them wanted to be in the transporter, it was fairly obvious. While we were discussing what to do with them, they tried to break out. My dad told my mom to let them back into the trap, and when she opened the door, they went like bats out of hell.
So ended the attempt to use the transporter. My dad decided he would just load the trap onto his trailer and take it from there. Which he did, without much more ado. Unfortunately, no one was in the market for hog meat just at that time, so after some attempts to get rid of them, he shot them. Which was probably what was going to happen to them anyway; I just don't like to think of the wasted meat. But there was no way we could let them go after all that--and anyway, the point is to get rid of them, not preserve them. As far as I know, they're not native species, so total extermination sounds fine to me.
After that, my dad knocked on the door and when I opened it, he displayed for me a humongous box turtle that he had picked up, I have no idea where. The shell alone measured 11 inches from stem to stern--the turtle wasn't coming out, needless to say. My mom and I took him (or her, we were debating the gender) up by the pond and let him/her go there. Hopefully he/she will live a fair few more summers and not risk being run over down there.
I do wonder how old a box turtle has to get to get that big though. It was a great-great-great-grandmother (or father) of a turtle, that's for sure.
This weekend was apparently a weekend for wildlife. As some of you may know, my dad has been waging an ongoing war against wild hogs which occasionally tear up parts of his property. The week before last he actually shot one, sitting up at night in his stand down by the pond. It was a boar. This weekend he trapped two more. So of course, he got my mom and I to help him.
The intention was to move the two hogs from the trap into what he calls his "transporter"; a lighter weight trap that he could use to transport the pigs live. The first, and most important, consideration was safety--we definitely did *NOT* want these pigs getting out. For one thing, that would be immediately dangerous to us, and for another, once trapped, the pigs were now trap-wise and probably could never be caught again. The second consideration was to avoid stressing the pigs themselves. Although they are mean nasty critters, we didn't want to be cruel to them.
When we got up to the trap, we could see that these were still fairly young pigs. They were old enough to be separated from their mom, which was a good thing! None of use wanted to deal with these trapped pigs with the possibility that an enraged sow was waiting out there in the woods! However, they did not look old enough to breed--yet--which was also a good thing. My dad guessed that they were likely siblings and they both had domestic stock in their genes--we could tell this because both had a white strip over shoulders and extending down their front legs. Nevertheless they were wild, feral hogs, skittish and highly dangerous. The larger of the two, with greyish fur, was a young boar (I don't know if there is a specific term for it); the smaller, with brownish fur, was a young sow, (I think that's called a gilt).
My dad began to orchestrate the intended move. The first order of business was to move the transporter up against the trap so that both doors were abutting each other. Then I drove the Gator up against the end of the transporter, to anchor it in place. My mom got into the rear of the Gator and pulled the rope to open the door of the transporter. Then my dad opened the door of the trap, hoping that the animals would enter the transporter of their own accord. No such luck. In fact, the hogs seemed more inclined to go the other way--they kept running into the far wall of the trap.
So my dad called me over to hold the door open by way of the rope while he tried to get the hogs to move. He took a small wire rod he had and prodded the pigs. No luck. He got an orange flag out and waved it in their faces--more than once actually hitting the boar with it. No luck. He even drew his pistol and discharged it at the rear of the trap to try to scare the pigs. No luck. The sow ran into the transporter a few times but then ran out again. The boar, however, refused to budge. And every time my dad went around to the end of the trap to try to get him to move, the he tried to charge. He was afraid, but also by that time damned mad. I'm sure, if he had been able to get at us, he would have ripped us badly.
We were the homo sapiens here, weren't we?
By this time, both my mom and I were having trouble holding the ropes up--the doors were heavy and the ropes were hard to grip. My dad tied the rope of the trap up so that that door would stay up without me holding it and I joined him in the attempt to get the pigs to move. By this time, they were both badly stressed, to say the least, and were bleeding from the mouth--I assume they bit themselves in the ruckus. At any rate, my dad and I finally followed my mom's suggestion to go find some big limbs from the surrounding area and see if that would be better. Well, it did work, although the boar snapped my tree limb in two with his tusk, I think that the flying wood scared him enough and they both ended up in the transporter, finally.
However, that immediately presented a whole other set of problems, chief of which being that the wire mesh on the transporter had bigger holes than that of the trap. The holes weren't small enough for the pigs to get through, but with the sow, it was a near thing. Her entire head could fit through a hole, and that was enough to be very dangerous. And neither of them wanted to be in the transporter, it was fairly obvious. While we were discussing what to do with them, they tried to break out. My dad told my mom to let them back into the trap, and when she opened the door, they went like bats out of hell.
So ended the attempt to use the transporter. My dad decided he would just load the trap onto his trailer and take it from there. Which he did, without much more ado. Unfortunately, no one was in the market for hog meat just at that time, so after some attempts to get rid of them, he shot them. Which was probably what was going to happen to them anyway; I just don't like to think of the wasted meat. But there was no way we could let them go after all that--and anyway, the point is to get rid of them, not preserve them. As far as I know, they're not native species, so total extermination sounds fine to me.
After that, my dad knocked on the door and when I opened it, he displayed for me a humongous box turtle that he had picked up, I have no idea where. The shell alone measured 11 inches from stem to stern--the turtle wasn't coming out, needless to say. My mom and I took him (or her, we were debating the gender) up by the pond and let him/her go there. Hopefully he/she will live a fair few more summers and not risk being run over down there.
I do wonder how old a box turtle has to get to get that big though. It was a great-great-great-grandmother (or father) of a turtle, that's for sure.
