A Damn Good Whacking

I mosey out to the pen and toss an over-ripe casaba to the wallowers. Their favorite. The largest male is soon headfirst into it, coming up only occasionally for air, yellow pulp dripping from his cheeks.

Two females eye the exploded melon and stealthily creep up. But the male cocks his head and narrows his hazel eyes. I know that pink ear has heard them. The females stop short, sitting back on their knees, tits swinging. They look at each other, deciding their next move.

They pounce.

Hey!

In a second, I’m over the fence, keeping the beasts apart with my shovel. The male reaches for the spade. 

Oof!

I chock him in the belly with it, knocking the wind out him.

Shit, he really tried to wrestle that shovel away. Not that he ever could. That’s why we amputate their thumbs when we catch’em and bring’em back for processing.