![]() The truncated ring finger on the pointing hand appears to have been gnawed by a wild animal. "They're back in the hammock!" he says, gesturing out the window. He has trained his dogs never to bark unless they are hot on the trail of a hog. "Hear my dogs?" Whidden yells, steering his truck between craters dug by hogs with tusks like Turkish scimitars. The state hires folks such as Whidden to get rid of them. A couple of hungry hogs, rooting for vittles during the wee hours,Ĭan turn a lush field into a moonscape by sunrise. ![]() In Florida, they are something like the computer virus of the mammal world, known for a voracious appetite for fragile native plants, birds, snakes and small animals. At 54,000 acres, the preserve is a showcase of delicate wire grass, banana-colored wildflowers, gator-infested sloughs and mysterious hammocks that serve as a veritable box of animal crackers for endangered species. "I'm telling my dogs to get me a hog," he yells over the hellish squeal of his truck's frazzled shock absorbers.Īs the day breaks at Kissimmee Prairie State Preserve, halfway between the Central Florida cities of Okeechobee and Sebring, Whidden could hardly be happier. "Thooo-ugg!" he grunts again and spits a projectile at an unfortunate oak. His jaws munch reflexively on a huge plug of Red Man. ![]() He is 6 feet 2 or so but weighs about 160 pounds in his dungarees, work shirt, ball cap, cowboy boots and three-day beard. He is 44 now, all sinew and brown skin with the Mount Rushmore of Adam's apples.
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