This was going to be a Valentine story but the day for lovers kind of got by me. So this is a belated Valentine article that was inspired by St. Valentine and the man on one of those “believe it or not” kind of television shows whose pig could talk.

I do believe I heard the porker said “hello” but I’m not so sure about “Go, Hogs!’

But, now he could have said that because Mama had a dog, Fluffy, that said, mama, as plain as day. And then, there’s the talking sheep story that Sis and I will stand by to this day.

Now, if you’ve ever had to fool with a stubborn, “sullin’” young’un, then you might have some idea what it’s like to fool with four, stubborn, “sullin’” sheep.

Just what caused the “girls” to defy us – the hands that feed them – we don’t know.

For years, we ran herd on goats and sheep. Then one day, Sis and Bubba decided that the goats had to go. When I got home from work that fateful day, much to my sorrow, our dear, dear goats were on the way to the Cuban meat market.

With Billy Goat gone, Bully, the Patriarch of the Sheep, was the sole “King of the Pasture” and roamed and rambled with undue authority. He was stubborn and butt-headed but nothing that we couldn’t handle. Then one day…

Undoubtedly, in all his grazing, Bully stumbled upon the root for that new miracle drug, Viagra. Why, in a twist, he turned into Romeo, Casanova and Don Juan all rolled into one. He chased the ewes all around the pasture with reckless abandoned. He ran them so that their tongues were hanging out and they could hardly bleat.

We tried to chase Bully away from the exhausted ewes. We tried to beat him back with sticks and run him away with rocks. But all to no avail.

Finally, the dogcatcher came to rescue the ewes. He shot Bully with a tranquilizer gun. Bully staggered, stumbled and fell flat in the pasture’s high grass.

We left him there to “recover,” but not wanting to take any chances that Casanova had been cured, we penned up the ewes – the girls – where he could look but not touch.

Later that day, Bully wobbled to his feet and began to hobble to the corral.

“What’s the matter with him, still stumbling like that?” I asked Sis.

We thought that he might still be disoriented from the “shot” but, no. Don Juan had broken his leg in pursuit of happiness.

The vet came and put a splint on his hind leg and assured us Bully would survive but would probably walk with a limp.

As dusk fell, Sis and I stood watching Bully hobbling around the girls’ corral.

Eyeing this one and that one. Finally, he sidled up to one of the more attractive ewes, rolled back his upper lips and “said” just as plain as day, “Buuuut-I-luuuvvvvv-yaaaa.”

Sis and I looked at each other. “But I love ya?!!”

Jaine Treadwell is features editor of The Messenger. Contact her at jaine.treadwell@troymessenger.com