Along came a new boarder on the chicken farm. His name was Arnold, and Arnold was a Yorkshire pig. Yes, he was just like his counterpart on the long-ago TV program "Green Acres." At first he was cute, but as he got bigger, Arnold became a No. 1 menace.

Way back when I was a youngster, I lived in the suburbs. I could never fathom having an animal that you would eventually put in the freezer, much less give a name and talk to.

But that is the way on the farm, right? Guess I’ll always be a bit "chicken hearted."

Young Arnold was cute. Adolescent Arnold was OK. But adult Arnold was an ongoing major nuisance.

The pig was housed behind one of the chicken barns with electric fencing, clean straw, water and food. What more could a pampered pig ask for? All the comforts of home.

But Arnold obviously wasn’t satisfied. That pig was so thick-skinned that the force of the electric shock didn’t even faze him, for out he would come _ not once, not twice, but as a continual daily sojourn that required constant surveillance.

My husband kept making excuses for him, "Animals just do these things. That’s all." One daily outing found that nasty pig routing up my prize rose bushes, along with eating all the hen and chicks that I had so carefully planted. More excuses.

The next time out, Arnold found a rain-filled muddy hollow behind the adjacent building. He made it his own.

The wind had blown chicken feed from the silo into the muck. The hot sun did the rest of the work of fermenting the glop into one stinky mess, which was all to the pig’s delight.

"My own private �wallow hole’... so-o relaxing and fragrant," you could almost hear his thoughts as he bathed in the sun and wiggled in the slop. "Absolutely heavenly."

Catching up with Arnold wasn’t hard, since one day an irate chaser, with a two-by-four in hand, missed his noggin and hobbled his leg. Poor Arnold was now slowed down with a "hippity-hop" to his gait.

Just as well, for, "Grab that pig," I shouted out the window one day as he was heading up the driveway toward the busy highway. My husband, hot on his heels, chased the pig back behind the barns.

When Arnold did a sharp left-hand turn, so did my hubby, who slid right into the stinking wallow hole ... ca-plunk! (He was not a happy camper).

No more excuses. We filled the freezer, and no one cried.

So much for my life on a chicken farm.

But before I came on the scene, my husband had an ingenious pig that I must tell you about.

Maybe a lot of pigs are this smart, but I for one was totally amazed.

"Piggy," I’ll call him because he never really got a formal name. Well, this particular pig was penned up in the usual wooden slat-sided pen.

Piggy was by himself and got lonely, so he learned to actually climb up and over his high-walled pen by using the horizontal slats as a ladder.

Smart?

Up and over he would go. And where was he found each time? He was always over in the field with the sheep.

I guess he was lonely, because when he first arrived on the farm as a youngster, he joined those sheep.

They all were friends _ friends until he grew bigger and wanted to be a "hog" and gobble up all the food. Hence he had to be penned up by himself. So much for friendships!

Another thing I learned about pigs is that they are relatively a clean animal. They keep their bedding area clean and they isolate the bathroom area away from where they feed and sleep.

So why the innuendo regarding sloppy people?

’Tis a puzzlement.

Elaine W. Kniskern is a 74-year-old resident of Schenevus and a grandmother of five.