It’s not all pigs and roses around here. Lately I’ve been having some troubles on the ye old urban farme. First, I finally moved the chicks–now teen chickens–out onto the deck. When I picked up their brooder box, I saw that I had ruined my hardwood floors. File that under F-ing Hell. My landlord is going to kill me. I guess it’s from the heat of the chickens which condensates water which then buckles the floorboards. Later my friend Max said it’s no big deal and he’ll help me fix it. In the meantime, it’s like a frozen seismic wave in my living room.
Then the sweet and gentle next door neighbors complained that the pigs smell. “My little girl,” he pointed to his adorable little munchkin, “was in the backyard and almost vomited from the smell.” I crouched down and said sorry to the angel. She giggled. I felt like the world’s biggest ass. I’m on a major cleaning regimen for the piggers, and have been putting down extra bags of sawdust and coffee hulls to mask the odor. The worst thing is, I can’t even smell them anymore. I might start burning incense. I brought the neighbors some roses from the farmer’s market and said the pigs will be gone by September 8, and could I please give them some pork chops?