"Pooh!" squeaked the voice.
"It's Piglet!" cried Pooh eagerly. "Where are you?"
"Underneath," said Piglet in an underneath sort of way.
"Underneath what?"
"You," squeaked Piglet. "Get up!"
Of all the new borns on the farm a fresh litter of piglets are hard to beat. Their wee steaming bodies slip out from their mother and instinctively make a beeline for a teat to suckle on. They are generating so much heat they don't remain moist for long and before you know it they're piled up in a heap of loveliness beside a very contented mother.
I could watch new born piglets for hours, but one must be careful. If you disturb mum she's likely to shift her impressive mass, rolling to a different side, or getting up on her feet to investigate before circling and settling back down. When this happens it's hard to keep track of where all the piglets are - and you find yourself doing a panicked head count.
And there you could find me on Thursday. Too heavy in my footing, straining to find number 11 after she had settled back down. I heard a low, distant squeal - more muffled than the siblings who were by now back at the milk bar. From under her rear leg a wee tail appeared, then back legs. Unfortunately there was no further progress and it was no longer just the piglet that was starting to show signs of stress. Eventually there was nothing for it than to try to help. As I climbed into the farrowing pen I was keeping a wary eye on the sow in case protective mothering instinct was to translate into a sudden turn of speed. I grabbed the back legs and pulled pretty hard - mightily relieved to extract the piglet from under his mothers lumbering weight.