The pigs have made quick work of their extended pasture. Five snouts, twenty hooves, and ten days transformed the space to muck and mire. They now work expeditiously right up to the fence line, challenging the rude restriction. They scratch their rear ends on the posts, shaking their bodies in an amusing type of pig twerk, a dance which threatens the backbone of their boundary. In an effort to allay their artfulness, we drop three round bales into their pen. Their acute curiosity is a sight to see, surveying every inch of edible possibility, including my pant leg. It’s almost time for them to curl up in their pig nest for the night, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find these bales worked over in the morning.