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Warthog? No, thanks

We buy tickets for the annual venison festival of the Reformed Church and one of the highlights on the menu is a spit roasted warthog and right there, at that moment, I feel a lump rising from deep down to where it gets stuck in my throat.
Spit roasted warthog!
Am I going to pay and watch how it gets sliced and devoured?
It is family, for crying out loud!
Bushpig on the spit, yes thank you, it would be nice. Anything on the spit is worth defying the cold winter weather, as long as it is not a warthog

At Marloth Park the animals become part of one’s existence, because of their daily visits. From the time the mother with her dock-tail came to introduce her four lively offspring for the first time until she staggered home one day all by herself, wasted away and obviously very ill, you experience a close bond with this little group which for years has been part of one’s household. When the grandchildren phone, first thing is to find out how Stompie is doing. Stompie is the daughter of Evelina who was killed by the lions a few years ago, which left us with sad faces for many days.
One of Stompie’s daughters stayed with her, while the rest left her when they became mature, just as Stompie did earlier to help her mother bring up their children. They had eight babies the two of them, and they brought them home to let them play on the lawn like puppies when, after a mid-morning suckle, their tummies looked like blown-up balloons. Afterwards they used to overturn the cool, soft soil under the wild fig tree with their pink snouts before flopping down for a snooze. But there was always one hyperactive one looking for a bit of fun. At first only one would try to shove him away, but soon all eight would join in, wrestling and fighting against each other with their manes straight in the air like porcupine quills. All part pf their preparation for adult life.

They grow up in front of one’s eyes and every morning when they come jogging along, one counts them to make sure that they are all alive and well.
April is the mating season and on some days the family is complete, but the next day the daughter is absent and the mother is looking after the offspring. All of a sudden the daughter comes round the corner, trotting along with her tail in the air like an antenna, followed by old Lelik {Ugly}, the well-equipped boar with his knobs as big as two sweet potatoes (I mean the ones on either side of his head) sniffing and snorting behind her.

One sad day, poor Stompie arrived, having a hard time to drag her sore hip along. She was wasted away and very weak. And who is jogging behind her with his overgrown knobs? Old Lelik, of course. He was definitely the cause of her painful hip, but he could not give a hoot about her condition.
My daughter phoned and very upset about the audacity and insensitivity of the old boar. I told her what was happening and right away Stompie’s name was changed to Kwezi (she suffered from TB and was later put down)

I arrive at the venison festival and I help myself to the offal, game pie and stew. I butter my slice of home baked bread and put an extra scoop of homemade jam on it. I queue up for a helping of spit roast bushpig, but I make a wide detour to avoid the warthog stall, because I don’t eat my family…..

owl in the back yard but it is so camoflauged (sp) that we really can't make out which owl it is.

i did see a paradise bird catcher in the back once...beautiful!!!