One rainy night in the summer of 2019, I found myself chasing a stubborn pig that had escaped from its pen. After fifteen minutes of sprinting and lunging I was grimy, sweaty, and more than a bit frustrated. So was the pig. When I finally had the miserable hog cornered, I inched forward keeping my eyes on the wary escapee. I knew it was now or never.
Aware that its bout of freedom was going to be cut short, the pig searched desperately for an escape. It decided, of course, to take the most difficult route: right over top of a dozen slimy fence posts that were stacked against the fence. As the pig clambered, clumsily over the posts, I lunged forward seizing him by the back trotter.
At that moment, a searing pain ripped through my knee. I tried to move my leg but discovered I was firmly attached to one of the fence posts. With one hand clinging to the squealing porker, I reached down with the other and discovered to my horror that a twisted, barbed fencing staple was lodged deeply into the muscle just along my kneecap.