Shoe Licking

As I embarked on my teaching career, I had thoughts of things that I hoped, but doubted, would happen: winning the national Teacher of the Year, having students make spectacular gains (like 10 years worth) or getting a visit from Ed McMahon bearing a giant check (prior to his death, of course, although I can't say that I would turn a zombie Ed McMahon with a giant check away).

I thought of things that I hoped would never happen: having a student arrive with obvious signs of abuse, being accused of something I didn't do or showing up to work in only my underwear.

It was during my second year of teaching 6th graders that I learned that there are somethings for which you simply can't prepare. There I was, standing at the front of the room, you know, teaching, when I saw Ashley* licking her shoe.

So I did what any self-respecting teacher would do, I asked her what she was doing.

Me: What are you doing?!?

Ashley: (looking at me as though I was an idiot) Licking my shoe.

Me: (stammering) Why?!?

Ashley: (speaking to me as though I was an idiot) It's dirty.

Me: (speechless)

Teaching is many things, but one thing it is not is dull. Just ask Ashley, if you can get the shoe out of her mouth long enough to answer.

*Name changed to protect the immaturely disgusting or the disgustingly immature.

Welcome to Topekaish

The lovely city of Topeka recently installed a lovely sign a couple of miles south of me to welcome one and all to the incorporated area of the capital.

This new daily reminder of my location has encouraged me to begin referring to the city in my mailing address as "Topekaish." I think it fits.

I've always known that I lived outside of the city and it really doesn't bother me. In fact, having grown up in an unincorporated part of a city in Florida, I'm aware that there are distinct advantages of not having a proper city to call home. I don't have to pay as many taxes, I don't have to worry about mowing my lawn or shoveling my sidewalks.

Evidence of my social awkwardness

When I want to leave an impression on people, I like to give them a shock.

Not a literal shock, of course.

So I tell them, "I artificially inseminated a pig."

This never fails to get a reaction. Typically it's a nervous titter and an abrupt change of subject.

But they never forget.

I can't blame them--in fact, when I look back on the story of my life, I know it is something that will stand out. I mean, how many people can say they've artificially inseminated swine?

By 1996, my labyrinthine route to answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" led me to the University of Florida's animal science program.

My finish line at the time was going to vet school. As such, I was frequently advised to focus my animal science labs on the one litter-bearing farm animal available--pigs. Since they have multiple babies, their reproductive physiology and health is more similar to a dog or cat than to the cows and horses with which they often share a farm.

I had the pleasure of first meeting swine during Growth and Development of Farm Animals. My group was tasked with measuring and weighing a group of gilts over the course of a semester. I'm sure everyone knows that gilts are just young, female pigs, right?

This experience taught me several things about pigs; such as how to move pigs (much like herding cats), how to measure pigs (much like fitting a cat for a dress), how to deal with pig noise (much like blocking out a herd of Siamese cats in heat) and how to weigh pigs (much like getting cats with really poor body images on a scale). Most of what I learned, though, is that they stink.

So when my next class came along, I was feeling really confident about working with the porcine class. This left me ample time to memorize the name of the class: Reproductive Physiology and Endocrinology of Domestic Animals.

Unfortunately, this class wasn't nearly as interesting as it sounds. It didn't even adequately explain why farm animals grow and develop, but domestic animals have reproductive physiology and endocrinology.

At least the lab was fun.

It was a few weeks into the semester when we were given a schedule of insemination. Of course, this followed on the heels of watching the semen collection of a boar via the "gloved hand method," which is pretty much self-explanatory. Seriously, how many of you have seen your professors do anything resembling a gloved hand semen collection on a boar? Yeah, I thought so.

This particular professor had a striking resemblance to my 10th grade history teacher. So you can imagine my dismay when it was with more than a little excitement that this learned man, this pillar of scholarly excellence informed us that we were lucky because inseminating pigs is pretty straightforward. This relates directly to the anatomy of pigs. In short, if you can screw in a lightbulb, you can artificially inseminate a pig. . .but not with a lightbulb.

It is this little factoid about the reproductive physiology of swine that meant we would be actually inseminating animals while the equine, bovine, ovine and caprine lab students were limited to voyeurism.

See, the penis of a pig is corkscrew shaped and the cervix has folds matching said corkscrew shape. So all a person has to do to deliver the semen to the uterus of a pig is to load it in a spirette (a spiral shaped pipette) and literally screw it in to the cervix. When it's correctly placed, the cervix clamps down, so you know it's safe to release the contents of the spirette.

I honestly never intended to inseminate a pig. It wasn't required, just an option. I was prepared to tell my professor that I wasn't going to do it when he approached and asked if I could come out to the swinery that afternoon. I said, "sure" before my brain could ever catch up with my mouth. I considered going back and saying I didn't want to do it, but then I figured how many times would I be able to artificially inseminate a pig in my lifetime? I also considered what a great story it would be to tell all those people who I wanted to shock.

Seriously, though, the event was rather anticlimactic. It wasn't nearly as interesting as the day my lecturing professor delivered a dead calf through the pelvic bones of a cow. But I guess that's another story for another time.