Castrating a pig would be simple, you'd think, but Wilbur is one powerful animal

He has the libido of a horny teenager and will have his wicked way with the Aga, boots, cushions, chairs, sofas and the washing machine

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"I’ve come to castrate your pig,” said the tinny voice over the intercom. For a paranoid person living alone in the country, this could be the stuff of nightmares. As it was, it was just my vet coming to remove Wilbur the pig’s testicles.

Stacey has always been quick to remove the cojones of anything male in this house. After every trip away, I’d return to find another hollow-eyed male dog staring at me in grim resentment. To be honest, I’ve been lucky to get away with it myself.

There were no immediate plans to emasculate Wilbur when he arrived as a refugee from Cheltenham. We were told he was a kunekune, a small, hairy pig from New Zealand. We now believe that he is at least half wild boar. He is short, squat and incredibly powerful. Not only that, he has the libido of a horny teenager. Wilbur is a sociable pig and likes to come into the house for a couple of hours a day to hang out with the dogs. The dogs are not so keen and vacate the premises leaving Roo, our gangsta cat to watch aghast as Wilbur proceeds to hump anything with an edge. His particular favourite is the Aga but he will have his wicked way with boots, cushions, chairs, sofas and the washing machine….

He makes no secret of his longing to get closer to Roo. I’ll be sitting at my laptop in the kitchen when I suddenly feel my Uggs held in a vice-like grip. I freeze and accept my fate. I wait for nature to take its course before once again, gingerly walking towards the bathroom to clean up. As I pass by Roo, he turns away in disgust.

There is a good chance that both my Uggs are pregnant – soon the house could be alive with the pitter-patter of little Ugglets. A climate of shame has settled on our home and something had to be done. So the vet was called and the appointment made.

The vet set up his table under the Dutch barn and everything was ready – everything but Wilbur. The moment the vet arrived, Wilbur knew that trouble loomed. He bolted and, for a little bastard boar, he’s fast. We chased him round and round the grounds like participants in some Cotswold redneck Olympics. Finally, we cornered him and I managed to flip him over and hold him down.

The vet needed to sedate him before the unthinkable happened. The injection was given and we waited… and waited… but it had no effect on Wilbur. Eventually we caught him again and he was given a second dose but still nothing. Wilbur appeared impervious to modern science and to prove it, he tried to mount a chicken. After half an hour, the vet gave him a final injection that made the pig stagger a little but didn’t cool his ardour. He set about a table leg with gusto. The vet admitted that this was one powerful pig, and that he was loathe to give him any more. So, we admitted defeat and he went away, promising to return on Monday for another go. Wilbur has retained his wedding tackle. It’s going to be a long weekend.