I Know a Girl who Killed a Wild Pig

 

“ Bounding through the bush, knife drawn, in pursuit of an angry and unpredictable boar; Gary Abblett became a blur amid the trees moving expertly across uneven terrain. Such was his strength and primal instincts”  …….“Playing God”  The Rise and Fall of Gary Abblett. (Garry Linnell)

 

Pretty impressive story ???. Well I thought so, that is until I heard the story about a girl I know doing something very similar. What if I told you she is ……”Feminine, petite, slight and gentle, less than 162 cm tall and weighing 50kgs- the size of your average Feral Pig”?

And Abblett was one described by Journalist Andrew Rule thus ….. knotted muscles and raw bones…. thighs like turkey drumsticks, his neck buttressed with a sloping ridge of muscle that links long, powerful arms. Like a silverback gorilla…”.

The difference is our heroine was not among of a bunch of hairy males packed into an old ute hunting Feral pigs for sport. Hearing the familiar but frightening noise of a wild pig and hunting dog locked in a stand-off, she was forced to engage a dormant primal instinct in order to protect an animal (the hunting dog she loved) from certain death.

 

One of her husband’s hunting dogs had escaped its compound and had cornered a wild pig behind a 2 metre high fence at the back of the small acreage the family shared on the outskirts of a rural village.

Unable to see exactly what was going on she knew she must act and quickly.

 

She rang her husband at work who told her that she MUST KILL THE PIG.

If the frenzied stalemate continued the hunting dog would eventually die from exhaustion as its instinct is not to retreat.

Most us with little or no WPS (wild pig slaying) experience on our CVs would respond to the PIG MUST BE KILLED directive similarly…. “now, let me get this straight…. You want me to go down there and place myself in the mix of a Wild Pig (of unspecified proportions) locked in  mortal combat with a dog trained to kill or die in the process …and…. What’s that other thing you said?….I must pierce the wild pig’s heart with a knife.. “  Too Easy….

Without question or alarm, she quickly secured her children in the house, mounted a quad bike and, with a dog lead wrapped around her waist (for the return trip with hopefully a living dog attached), armed herself with a knife (I’d like to say clenched between her teeth but probably not) specifically designed for WPS and juggling her mobile phone on which her husband was giving clear instructions, she level- headedly headed in the direction of the unfolding massacre she and she alone had to bring to an end.

Even though she had never killed a living thing, she simply knew what she had to do.

She was calm and considered and motivated by the task of saving the life of her favourite dog.

“the hunting dog was old and my favourite and I didn’t want him to die”

For the record, our rookie pig slayer had witnessed the method by which an experienced pig hunter permanently disabled a WP during a rare hunting trip with her husband. But before she landed the fatal blow there was just one other, small detail to be addressed. With the clock ticking another skill had to be acquired before she brought about the demise of the WP and saved her favourite dog.

Top of the agenda: Disengage WP from the contest without, of course, allowing it to turn on her. It turns out WP weighed in at about the same number at which she tipped the scales.

The trick to incapacitating WP: Grab it by the hind legs and tip it over on its back. THEN you plunge your knife into its heart.  Too Easy.  But after one failed attempt at “flipping” the WP –which one would suspect was getting crankier and more dangerous by this point- she was forced to retreat to the relative safety of the high fence atop of which was a mobile phone broadcasting precise instructions for her to “kill”.

 

Oh and did I mention our woman on a mission had been to the gym and was still kitted out in her tights and whatever else one wears to the gym?

 

Just imagine the confusion of the combatants in the violent skirmish when Lorna Jane in full kit suddenly leaps into the fray, instead of usual John Rambo in fatigues, and competently delivers the fatal blow to end the savagery.

What happened then? Splattered with pig blood and dog spittle, her first pig kill under her belt, she calmly put an exhausted but grateful, feral pig hunting dog on the back of the Quad and headed back to the house.

In the hours following her courageous intervention, this young woman, who’s probably never heard of the footy champion they still call GOD , simply got on with the more mundane tasks of running a family.  She can, however, legitimately boast similar pig slaying prowess to the Geelong legend. But my guess is she won’t.

 

 

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