Christchurch: Urban farmland

Urban farmland? Bit of an oxymoron there, don’t you think, Moata?

Mayhaps, pedantic reader. Mayhaps.

Then again, I’m not quite sure what else to call my hometown given the odd spate of random livestock appearances we’ve been having.

First, the neighbourhood pig, Bruce, a friendly kunekune, got loose and my fiance spied him through our kitchen window snuffling up our driveway. We tried to get him to stay with a banana but he wandered off and his humans had to be fetched to pursue him in the rain. I’m frankly having trouble believing this wasn’t a scene out of a screwball comedy, but it did, truly happen. Here is proof.

Then, a week later IN THE SAME SUBURB the police picked up a roaming calf and took it for a ride in a police car. ACTUALLY.

Which is odd enough, but the very same day someone else snapped a photo of some ponies just, you know, hanging at the side of the road.

Home, home on the plains. Where the pigs and the bobby calves play…

I for one (am confused but) welcome our livestock overlords.

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