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By Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck

It was our first week in the country, and all I could do was stand at the kitchen window and stare into 20 acres of ungrazed woods. Never trampled, never gnawed, never poisoned. Our lane was 1,000 feet long and went out to a road that most people wouldn't risk driving on. It was just us and the bluebells, an owl and a pond.

Still, it was heartening to see our very first visitor coming to welcome us. A red truck appeared over the crest of our lane and coasted down to the house. The old truck had high wooden sides on the back. It squealed to a stop — several times. I went out to greet our guests.

Both truck doors opened with a scraping of metal on metal, and two big men got out. They were shaped like those old metal tops we used to play with, the ones that have a crank you pump up and down. They had on bib overalls which suited them because you don't have to snap those pesky grippers at the waist. You should, but you don't have to.

"Hello!" My greeting floated on out into the meadow, unnoticed as they walked to the back of their truck. I noticed that there was a sea of pink hair in the back of the truck, some sticking out through the wooden slats. I went around to the tailgate to join the boys. There was a hog in the back of that truck that filled it front to back, side to side. It must have weighed 400 pounds. My husband hovered around 200, and he'd have been the runt in this dude's litter. I may have been new to the country, but I had worked on a gynecology unit, and I was quite sure I was looking at the south end of a north-going sow. The question was, why?

I didn't need to ponder for long. One of the fellows held out a cottage cheese box. I peered inside. It held a chunk of red, quivering, liver-like material about the size of a plum.

"What is it?" You think I asked that question, right? Nope. He asked me.

"Got me," I said. "What is it?" The two looked at each other with profound disappointment, tinged with a hint of disgust.

"Ain't you a vet?" the heretofore silent one asked.

"Uh, no. I'm a nurse. Where'd that thing come from?"

"Fell out of her this morning," the more loquacious one said.

They got back in the truck, shaking their heads, and hauled their girl up the driveway. I could understand their disappointment. If things like that are falling out of your hog, a vet next door would be a real godsend.

— Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck

Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck is a retired broadcast writer and hospice nurse who lurks on the shores of Lake Michigan and writes short stories and essays.