We’ve had some strange requests from farm visitors but nothing like the one from the two well turned out guys that appeared at the pig barn this summer. They drove up in a white convertible sports car, which was odd enough, but not as odd as the favour wanted. Would we, they asked, stir up the manure pile and create a stink in the area?
Whatsmore, if we could create a doozy of a smell, they’d give us a case of cold beer.
Now, when you raise livestock you are bound to get some unusual assignments. A minister in a local church once borrowed our guard donkey, Beverly, for a series of reality Bible sermons. The minister had taken his congregation rock climbing (don’t ask me how this relates to the Scriptures) and was now going to reenact a scene that needed a donkey. So we brushed and groomed Beverly until she glowed and trailered her to the church. It all went well, with my wife, Vio, leading Beverly, followed by the minister then the churchgoers, all chanting and parading around the churchyard, until a stray dog wandered by. As a guard donkey, Beverly is programmed to go after dogs. I don’t think this is what the minister had in mind but the ensuing stand-off between Vio and the donkey seemed to embed a Old Testament-type parable itself—that a good wife will always best a bad donkey.
Another time a forensic entomologist asked us to provide a dead pig to study decomposition in the ocean. The arrangement involved stopwatch timing, so we delivered the freshly killed pig to a ship that was steaming at dockside. No sooner had we loaded it than they cast off.
Twice now the RCMP have bought dead pigs to train their dive teams to spot bodies underwater. And each year a medical outfit researching laser surgery techniques buys a pig from us.
But we have never, ever, had anyone ask us to create more stink.
Resourceful farmhand Rob, who is both accommodating and who likes beer, told the two visitors in their convertible that he’d see what he could do. But first he wanted to know why they wanted to create a stink. They said they wanted to buy a property, a lovely home on five acres, that had just gone up for sale next door, and were worried that moneyed buyers from Vancouver might bid the price skyhigh. An open house was to be held the next day. A barn smell, they conjectured, might discourage some citified buyers.
So Rob torn into the manure pile with the skidsteer, fluffing up the pile and creating what, even by our standards, was a real stink. As a final gesture before going home for the day, he left the skidsteer, bucket filled with a foul slurry, next to the property line. Other than the case of beer, which was delivered to the barn, we knew nothing of the outcome.
Then, two weeks ago, the white convertible appeared at the barn. They had good news, they said. They had bought the property. The stink at the open house had been palpable and most off-putting. “What’s that smell?” the prospective buyers said, clutching their throats. And just in case any of them thought the smell transitory, our friends with the convertible said, “This is nothing. We drove by yesterday and it was really bad."
We were all happy and shook hands and said we hoped we could be good neighbours.
“But there’s just one thing I’m worried about,” I said. “You still have to live next door to a pig barn. Sometimes, there’s no escaping the odour. Are you going to be okay with that?”
Clearly, they had already discussed this. “Not to worry—every time we smell the pigs, we’ll think: that smell is why we got our beautiful place.”
- Tom Henry