“Looks pretty hopeless, Mr. Bush,” I said as I leaned over the wall of the pen. “And what a pity, it’s a grand litter. Twelve of them, aren’t there?” The farmer grunted. “Aye, it allus happens like that.” He wasn’t a barrel of laughs at any time but now his long, hollow-cheeked face was set in gloom. I looked down at the little pink creatures huddled in a heap, liquid yellow faeces trickling down their tails. Neonatal scour. The acute diarrhoea that afflicts new-born piglets and is nearly always fatal unless treated quickly. “When did they start with this?” I asked. “Pretty near just after they were born. That were three days ago.” “Well, I wish I’d seen them a bit sooner. I might have been able to do something for them.” Mr. Bush shrugged. “I thought it was nowt—maybe t’milk was too rich for ’em.” I opened the door and went into the pen. As I examined the little pigs their mother grunted as if in invitation. She was stretched on her side, exposing the long double row of teats, but her family weren’t interested.
