Our government not working at internet speeds

Our first little iPhone app, VaxTrak was first published 4 years or so ago (remember this?) . An app to help parents and families keep track of immunizations received, recommendations, find their nearest flu clinic, and generally keep your kids (or self) safe from preventable diseases. 

The VaxTrak video - acted by my friend & colleague Anna

This was probably one of the professional contributions I'm most proud of, even now, as it came from a very personal place in our family of having moved around enough to have lost that little yellow paper booklet the pediatrician entrusts you with when your child is first born. 

If I had realized that importance placed on that little yellow booklet, and that it would almost certainly be the deciding factor in whether or not your child would be admitted to the graduate school of their choice or spend the entirety of their lives asking if you'd like the egg white only breakfast McMuffinator. we'd have probably taken better care of where we put the Suddenly Important Yellow Booklet.

Look doc, we were new parents, still trying to figure out which end of this baby you just plopped on our laps is doing the squalling, and which the pooping. Seriously. Your medical judgement in putting another helpless human into our completely unprepared care is questionable at best. I'm not sure if I managed to dress & bathe myself the first year of parenthood, let alone keep Little Precious clean. 

So coming up with a way that my company at the time - squarely in the vaccines-supplying business - could help parents out with their job of vaccines-keeping-up-with efforts, was pretty cool. 

Cool enough that Novartis filed a patent on our behalf. 

Never mind that the filing is several years old, or that the app was discontinued last year, a little ways before Novartis sold off their vaccines business to GSK.  The patent continues along its merry way through the halls of the US patent office, and may, someday, actually be approved. No doubt just before we all ditch our smart phones in favor of a embedded chip that shoots lasers into our retinas and tells us where we need to go. 

Whatever. This week we got some paperwork from Novartis basically to sign away the rights to any money made from the (always-published-for-free-on-the-App-store) app (that-is-no-longer-available). 

It's just nice to see "Inventors" there in black and white, with our names listed. 

Bringing home the bacon - part III

The first couple of trips out to the woods, I had brought a bucket of peanuts, and not a lot else.  I don't know how I thought I was going to manage to get the pigs home if I had stumbled across them. I sort of had a vague thought that if they had gotten big enough, I could probably toss them into the back of my pickup, and they wouldn't be able to jump out. That makes sense, right? Right?? 

Honestly, I was pretty sure that I was on a wild goose chase. Those pigs had disappeared so thoroughly when they spooked that, down deep, I could only picture stumbling through the ferns, watching the little spotted backs disappearing into the underbrush again, curled tails mocking my best attempts to get them back. They were small when they escaped, and pigs go feral so quickly by all reports. Thankfully, the policemen never asked me how I was planning on transporting the pigs when they were out in the woods with me.

Over the course of the afternoon, I had offers of help come in from a few places. The few professional farmers & the sort of overly-ambitious hobby farmer amateurs (I'm definitely in the latter bucket) in our small town form a pretty small network. We know each other. When we bump into each other at town functions we ask about the latest crop of spring lambs, or how their egg production is doing, or how they're faring with the deer this year. We share our latest experiment in agriculture. There's a kind of unspoken venn diagram of types within the community - those that just do vegetables, those that keep animals. Big enough to support a CSA, or just enough to get an egg or two for breakfast every few days. There's a livestock/pet split, and an occasional flare-up on the discussion boards around hand-dried-seaweed-cooked-in-my-kitchen-with-extra-vitamin-L-(for-Love)-chicken-feed vs. commercial-pellets-with-lots-of-soy-for-the-birds-you're-not-going-to-name-anyway-because-let's-face-it-they-cost-$3-to-replace-and-what-the-hell-do-you-mean-you-don't-vaccinate-your-flock? (Guess which group I'm in?)  But whatever segment you fall in, large scale organic grower or just a few backyard chickens, it's enough to get you into the club of empathy & frustration. 

From across that loose group, I had a double handful of volunteers reach out to tell me they were ready to plunge into the woods and pig wrangle. As much as anything, that kept me going back out with each sighting. 

By the time the last call came in, it was after 6 in the evening, and the police dispatcher was chuckling when we spoke.

"Mr. Grady - these guys say they're standing next to your pigs. On the trail out near the abandoned barn."

"You have got to be kidding me. They can see them from where they are?"  

"No. Literally. Right next to them. How about I patch them through?"

"YES!"

It took a moment, but then a very hesitant voice came on the line.  

"Um. Hi. I'm Doug. I'm standing in the woods next to some pigs?"

"HOLY JEEZ-NUTS! STAYRIGHTTHEREFORFIVEMINUTESIAMONMYWAYDOUGYOUAREAWESOME"

This time, I actually grabbed a spare kennel and threw it in the back of the truck before speeding off. It's a very large version of one of those plastic dog kennels you see at airports. We have a Saint Bernard. And I didn't really have any thing else to transport them in. I'm not really as well prepared for livestock escapes as I might be. 

I tore back down the road in my license-plate-a-little-too-obscured truck, and bounced back down the dirt path to the trailhead. The trail skirts a pond, with a large, abandoned barn just in one corner. From the description, I figured they must be close, so I grabbed the bucket of peanuts and the kennel and hoofed it along the pond edge to the barn. There were a couple of teenagers fishing on the spillway. They were also smoking something that smelled like not-quite-tobacco. Apparently, I startled them. 

"EXCUSEMEHAVEYOUSEENMYPIGS?"

"Um. Dude. What?"

"ISAIDDIDIJUSTTALKTOYOUONTHEPHONEABOUTSEEINGMYPIGS?"

"Hey! You're that guy! The cops were telling us about some pigs."

Sheesh. Never mind. I pulled my phone out and dialed Doug. 

"Doug! DO YOU STILL SEE THE PIGS?"

"Yeah, man. They're right here. They keep wandering down the trail a bit. What should I do?"

"Just stay with them - I'll find you!"

Doug's friend Billy came out of the woods, with a 6 year old on his shoulders and waved me down. "They're down this way." Doug & Billy had been out fishing. They were from a neighboring town, and Billy had brought his girlfriend's son along to show him what fishing in a river in the countryside was like.  The kid was bouncing in excitement to have seen actual live pigs in the woods.

About a quarter mile down the path, there they were. Content, muddy, a bit taller, and pretty lean. And none the worse for wear. 

Billy looked at me. "We were fishing on the river. I had a bag of sunflower seeds that I put down on the ground beside me, and out of the bushes, these three little pigs came up and started eating them. I had to look twice to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I was."

Yeah. You don't see that every day, I guess. 

"Hoe. Lee. Crap."

That's all I could manage.

I walked right up to them. Gave them a scratch or two, and through a grin about a half mile wide, I explained the history of these pigs to the guys. They'd been out on their own for about four weeks. I had been pretty certain that they were coyote poop at this point, at best.  The guys were shaking their heads, laughing. One of them looked at the kennel. "Howe are you going to get them in that?"

It looked big enough, barely. I put on my confident farmer face, reached over and grabbed Rocky -  the male & the biggest of the three - by his hind leg. Before he knew what I was doing, I chucked him into the kennel and shut the door. He had definitely gotten bigger - but he hadn't put on that much weight. Maybe 40 or 50 pounds. The other two were smaller. They were also startled that Rocky had just been manhandled. 

The girls trotted a little closer to Rocky in the kennel - they were nervous, but they didn't want to drift. I grabbed the Spare next - she's always been the most skittish. I told Billy to be ready with the kennel door, and I slung her in. 

That left Tocino. She was standing there, a bit confused. She's always been the most gentle - I was actually able to pick her up and cradle her like a baby. She's only about 35 or 40 pounds, and was calm enough to pet. Until I shoved her into the kennel - at that point, the kennel was full enough that it was more like a piggy Rubik's Cube, but I just kept shoving until her butt was tucked under Rocky's face. The Spare was somewhere on the other side of the mound of piglet. Tocino shat on the bars to let me know what she thought of it all. 

I grinned and caught my breath. The little boy was pouring a few sunflower seeds into the cage to keep the pigs happy, and the guys and I looked at each other in satisfaction. 

I told the guys that I wanted to give them some cash. Something to reward them for the find. It was the least I could do.

No, no, they said. There's no need. 

"No, you don't understand," I said. "My truck is a quarter mile back up the trail, and this kennel is heavy. I'm about to ask you to help me carry it." 

They grinned again. Cash is fine, they said. 

When I got the piglets home, I put them back into their small, well fortified pen. They were tired, they were covered in pig shit, and they were hungry. They stretched out and let us all give them a good scratch. Pig shit and all. 

The Boy and the Critter were both happy to see them. The Critter was shaking her head - "I had written these pigs off. I was pretty sure they were eaten." Ever the pragmatist. 

The Boy ran out to check on them every couple of hours, to see if they were still there. He'd come back inside to report in triumph that they were. 

The next day, I began to build a new fence. Not relying on solely electric anymore - more solid, with electrified line as an addition. I'll post more on that later. But you can see how happy the kids were - I have the Critter setting fence posts. 

I called the police department to let them know that we had, after all, gotten the pigs back. They were laughing and happy for us. I promised them all a Christmas ham, or a pile of prosciutto. Or something to remark on their general fantasticness. And also: high fives all around.  

The pigs munched away happily at their grain and peanuts while we worked on the fence. Rocky climbed into the feed bin with all four legs and stood up to his knees in feed. They'd take turns rooting through the leftover hay and finding a comfortable spot. They drank from their fresh, cool water, and looked at us, seemingly happy to watch us work. 

This fence will be more Guantanamo-esque, and less 'disappears when you're not looking at it.' I'll share more on that another time.  

I turned the feed bucket upside down in the pen, and sat down to have a long conversation with the pigs. "If you disappear again, you're on your own. I'll tell the coyotes where you went, and you can take it up with them."  I pulled another tick off my leg and crushed it against the new fence. 

Ok. It wasn't that long a conversation.  But it was heartfelt. I don't have the energy to do this often. 

But still. I went out to the pigs this morning before anyone else was awake and gave them a scratch, and a bucket of peanuts. 

We're all happy they're back. 

The phantom pigs of Middlesex county: Part II

Weeks went by without a sign. I took down parts of the electric fence, but couldn't be too bothered to tidy up much of the pig pen. I felt kind of foolish - one of our piglets was intended for our friends at a farm down the road, and here I couldn't even keep them safe for a few weeks. 

I had intended to give them the larger of the two females. Tocino, our gentle little bacon seedling that had gone to visit the first graders, was such a sweet thing that we wanted to keep her. And our friends had specifically requested a female. Besides, the Spare, as we've taken to calling the other female, was the most skittish & least friendly of the pigs. Rocky was a bigger, curious boy, always intent on seeing what we had brought when we came to the pen. The Spare was determined to sneak away. I had absolutely no evidence to support it, but I had fixed all of the blame for The Great Escape on the Spare. 

And the coyotes which I was pretty sure had eaten them all. 

I reached out to the farmer where I got the pigs. Sean lives out in central Massachusetts, and has a great stretch of land. And I know he's had his own share of predator problems. We talked about different styles of predator problems - if it had been a big cat, there would have been a mess. With coyotes, it's likely that the piglets would have been taken back to the pack, and you'd hardly see a sign. 

That certainly fit.  Life went on at our house, but I really did miss my morning ritual with the pigs. And I really missed all that potential bacon that had been destined for my freezer. 

Fortunately, I knew the farmer that I used to get my pigs from (before I took it in my head to start raising my own) had gotten a couple of piglets of her own again. 

I wasn't sure she was actually going to have them this year - you may or may not be aware of the Great Pig Shortage of 2014, but pigs are a much rarer commodity than they were a couple of years ago. I called her up and asked if she had a buyer for the end of season yet - lucky for me, they were still unclaimed. 

While this didn't replace the pleasure I get out of raising the meat myself, or the interaction with the animals, at least I had some assurances of not missing a year in my prosciutto pipeline. 

Life returned to normal, more or less. 

Until this past weekend. 

Another neighbor down the road who keeps goats came by on Sunday while I was in the garden weeding, and cursing the deer who've been raiding my pea plants & tomatoes. (Seriously. What the hell. Eat all the damn peas you want, if that's your thing. I'll be irritated, but I can call that an acceptable price to pay. But why do the damn deer insist on cropping off the tops of all my tomato plants, leaving me with little stubby shrubs with nary a flower on them?  The density of deer population in our town is about 10x what a 'healthy' population would look like. On the one hand, this gives rise to the tick population, and hello lyme disease! But if that weren't bad enough, you've got to go and sabotage a man's tomato crops? I take that kind of thing personally). 

Over my cursing, I heard someone calling my name. "Your pigs have been spotted!"

What the hell? That was 4 weeks ago. My pigs are coyote poop at this point. 

Except they apparently weren't. That morning, a group was hiking through the trails about 2 miles from our house on a guided bird watching tour (that's the kind of town we live in). And out of the brush trotted three little spotted pigs. Friendly and curious. 

I had her draw me a map, and I hopped in my truck and sped over. It's 2 miles through the woods, but it's about 5 miles to actually drive the round about path, and then you can only get so close to the trail head. 

I had grabbed a bucket of peanuts, and some feed, and hiked about a half mile in either direction on that trail, making big loops through the woods, rattling the bucket and calling out. Thinking the whole time that these pigs were going to become the Flying Dutchpigs of Carlisle, Massachusetts - appearing without warning, and disappearing again into the undergrowth before the startled eyes of birdwatchers. 

No sign. 

I dumped the bucket of feed at the trail head, hoping the pigs might find it and enjoy it at least. I hiked back to my truck and headed home. Just before I pulled in my driveway, one of our local police officers pulled in behind me and turned his lights on. 

"Your license plate is mounted funny. Can you fix that?" 

Sure, officer. Never mind that the truck is a 1967 ford, and that the license plate seems to have been just fine for the last 47 years. I'll get right on that. But for now, I have to go inside and pull about a half dozen ticks from the crevices of my body. Unless you want to help me with these ticks who have decided to get personal, can I work on that license plate thing later? 'Kay.

I went back in the garden to grab my hoe & put things away, and my Bride came running out. 

"That police officer just knocked on our door!"

Seriously? OK, fine. I'll remount the damned license plate. Jesus. 

"Someone just called in with a pig sighting!"

Holy shit. Back in the truck, and I headed back to the general area. I tried a different way in to the conservation land. From the fields back in the woods, I called the police station. "Where exactly were they spotted?"

"The caller said they were lying just off the trail, enjoying the sunshine. Hang on, I've got an officer at your truck now. He will lead you there."

So I went back to my truck, and sure enough, one of our police officers was waiting for me. It was a different policeman than had pulled me over & knocked on my door.  

He smiled and we shook hands. "We've got our motorcycle officer coming in the other way. Follow me, and we'll get you to the trail head." 

(If you're keeping count, I had three police officers and central dispatch coordinating the pig hunt with me.  My town doesn't often have days this exciting.)

We got back down to the same trail head I had been on before - the good news was that the map that our neighbor had drawn was accurate. The bad news was there was still no sign of the pigs. I walked the trail a bit again, but I figured the woman who had called it in had been a part of that same birding group who had seen them, a few hours before.  The police found a few kids fishing near the pond, and asked them if they had seen three little pigs. 

"Um. No." I think the kids thought the cops & I were pulling some kind of prank. 

I was a bit embarrassed by the whole thing at this point, what with taking up the time of most of our town's on-duty police force, but the senior officer just shrugged. "We're a farming community. It happens."

I shook hands with the police officers, and called off the hunt. 

I went back home again, and once again began the process of de-ticking, shaking out my clothes, and taking an extended hot shower. 

I had just started to make dinner and think about a much anticipated cocktail when the phone rang again. 

"Mr. Grady, this is the Carlisle police department. There's someone on the trail with your pigs right this very minute."

...