I freaking love this story.
My dad must have liked pigs quite well and once when we were shipping cream to the creamery, he had an excellent crop of rye. He got the bright idea of buying buttermilk from the creamery, mixing in it with the rye chop etc and feeding what looked like marvellous goup to the pigs. They died. He was so upset he just couldn’t believe all that good food had killed them. He got a team and dragged a huge dead pig out behind the farm. Sharpened a butcher knife and went to the swollen carcass to preform an autopsy. He put his foot on it and plunged in the knife. And there followed such an explosion as has never been seen before or since. My dad claimed it lifted him off his feet, hit him square in the face! My mother heard him calling and went out to see him coming towards the house. He would walk a few feet then stop and vomit, then swear like you couldn’t imagine, then walk a few feet more. Mom didn’t know what was the matter with him but she knew he stunk awful and was heading for the house. She wouldn’t let him in but threw some clothes out for him and made him bath and change outside and bury his dirty clothes. He never experimented feeding pigs fancy feed again.