A Random Act of Pig Kindness

Every time I pass the dry, barren, dirt pig pen on the corner of Rice and Oso Road, I feel a pain in my solar plexus. Once you’ve had pet pigs, once you see their unique pig personality and intelligence, and have devoured books like The Pig Who Sang to the Moon: The Emotional World of Farm Animals by the great animal author Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson, the whole world of expanded pig consciousness opens up and you begin to see the different breeds of pigs a bit like the different breeds of dogs.

Early this morning, on my way to yoga as usual, I vowed to later on check on the condition of a pig I had begun to notice in a pen near the horse corrals. I could see from the road that it had no shade except for a board propped up on one side of the fence to block the afternoon sun. I told myself that this pig has a better life than factory farm pigs stuck in steel crates, and that maybe I’d better just mind my own business. But, today, I could no longer suppress the urge to have a closer look.

So after yoga I parked nearby, grabbed a ripe banana, and tried to make myself invisible as I walked around the pen. I could tell from her nipples that this was a girl pig. She was lying in a tiny patch of shade. Her water bowls were dry. I tossed a couple of pieces of banana through the fence. She got up to investigate—not a potbellied pig, just your standard “farm pig.” My guess is that they’re fattening her up for slaughter. (If her owners read this and I’m wrong, please set me straight.)

She had no shelter, no straw or alfalfa hay bedding, no igloo (my pigs all loved their own igloo). It was hot, and I didn’t want to get in trouble for trespassing, so I didn’t stay long. I watched her eat the banana and then went home.

The afternoon grew hotter. I felt compelled to check on her again. I first thought her pen was empty—no pig in sight. But then I realized she was pressed against the fence where the shade-providing board stood—the only shady spot there was. Her water bowls were still dry, so I walked back to the car to get a gallon of water. I distributed the water in the two bowls. With the first splash of water she immediately scrambled to her feet and started drinking and scooting the bowls with her snout.

I remembered how, when I had pigs, we put rocks in the bowls to weigh them down to keep the water from spilling. After she drank, she went over to a box-like contraption. I saw then that this was some kind of automatic feeder. Maybe the water stimulated her appetite for pig pellets. I observed a few moments longer, then went up the hill to help my dad with paperwork (another story). From there I drove to The Farmer and the Cook and scored a stash of small, pig-sized apples.

Much to my relief, when I returned two hours later in the hottest part of the afternoon, her pen had been watered. There was mud, glorious cool mud! And I could see that her sunburnt pink skin had been hosed off. As soon as she heard me approaching she started grunting—that sweet, familiar sound that my pigs always made when they heard me coming. She started pushing and pressing against the fence—just like my Rosie used to do before I opened her pen every morning.

I reached through the pen and scratched her bristly wet back. My brain went into a swirl . . . I didn’t want to give her too much hope. I couldn’t set her free to wander, to root and explore. I put two apples in her pen; what more could I do? This is a world of pig-eating carnivores . . . She has a date with destiny, just like you and I. Do you suppose if she learns “The Secret” that she can alter her fate and visualize a new future for herself?

About the photos: This lucky potbellied pig lives in a private Ojai pig sanctuary.

Related stories:  A Visit to an Ojai Pig Sanctuary

 

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Her cousins on the factory farm are not so lucky.

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