A Fond Farewell To ‘Pig’

By Mike Donahue

Moapa Valley Progress

Rural life is in my blood. I have lived on, near, or in connection with, farms and ranches my entire life. For the most part I have enjoyed and continue to enjoy almost everything about country living. If you could bottle the singular aroma of a fresh-cut alfalfa field wafting over the land in the early morning, lightly spiced with just a hint of warm saddle, I’d probably use it for aftershave.

I actually enjoy the sounds and scents of farm animals — most animals that is, goats being the exception – that permeate rural air. They remind me of many of the good things in rural life – a warm barn when there’s three feet of snow outside, a new calf slurping a long drink of life from mother, the snorty breath of an inquisitive horse at a new smell.

I like lambs, chicks (poultry, of course), foals, calves and, believe it or not, piglets.

I have raised almost all of them in the past, but until this year, I’ve never had much to do with pigs. When I was very small, the farm across the road had an enormous sow with two handfuls of piglets. I ran over eager to see the new farm babies.

When I couldn’t see much peeking between the slats of the pen, I climbed up on the side of the feed trough to get a better look. Yep, there they were, all gazillion of them and then I promptly fell in.

When I hit the bottom of the feed bin, that big ol’ sow came after me like a locomotive. Her shrill squeal sounded like a screaming train whistle signaling my sure and untimely death. I was saved by the hired hand who yanked me to safety by the scruff of the neck.

I was warned that protective mother sows eat inquisitive little boys and if I knew what was good for me, I’d stay away from the hogs or I might end up as Easter dinner for the new piglets after mama sow had her way with me.

I didn’t have to be warned twice and I’ve avoided pigs ever since. That is until this year when I brought home a little pig I bought at the Clark County Fair that had been used for educational purposes.

The idea was that I would raise that pig and then butcher it in six months to stock the freezer with pork. Being a carnivore reared on a farm (omnivore really since I also eat plants and vegetables), I have raised and butchered animals my whole life that eventually ended up in the family larder. No big deal.

A pig, which is supposed to eat just about anything, should have been easy as pie.

Well, that’s exactly how it started out.

I built that little “gilt,” which is a young female pig, a sturdy home in a small corral. It was made from railroad ties, not bricks, but I defy any wolf who would have tried to blow that house over.

Then I bought a big bag of pig feed at Home Hardware and began to feed the little gilt twice a day. In about two or three days I discovered the pig was a picky eater. I not only had to sit with her and coax her to eat by scratching her back and rubbing her ears, I eventually had to buy stuff I knew she would like. Human stuff like oatmeal, milk, sour cream, bread and potatoes.

I balked at first but then relented since the idea was that I’d give the pig the food that she would eat and it would also make her fat, fast. It was a win-win situation. What went in the pig would eventually be going in me.

In no time the pig was growing like a weed. She was not only getting all that tasty, fattening people food but she was also getting processed pig food, sweet feed and a bunch of other stuff, too.

She was one happy girl. Her ears got long and floppy, her eyes warm and cuddly and the pounds just piled up. And then something went terribly wrong.

I’m not sure when it happened, but all of a sudden the gilt was no longer just a pig. She became ‘Pig’, a name I had begun to call her after looking deep into her little pig eyes. She became affectionate and started talking to me whenever I was near her sty.

No, not words like people talk, but grunts, squeals and other little sounds that told me she was lonely, happy, frisky or just plain piggish.

I hate to say it, but despite my repeated warnings that I was eventually going to eat her, Pig began to like me.

And as for me, well, I don’t know. I began to like her, too. Maybe it was all the scratching and rubbing and whatever, but Pig became like a friendly dog and I liked it. I liked her. Whenever I went into her pen to feed her or clean things up, she would welcome me, talk to me and actually wag her fat, piggy, curly tail.

It wasn’t long before I began to have terrible guilt over my gilt. It was agonizing. I mean after all, I was going to eat her.

I don’t know how those 4-H kids manage to raise an animal or two or three every year and then see them marched off to the butcher but they’re better, stronger than me.

I would like to say there’s a moral here, but it escapes me. I couldn’t afford to keep Pig in the style to which she had become accustomed and her destiny was sealed before I ever brought her home.

I am proud of my hearty ruralness, but one of the hardest things I’ve ever done was take Pig to Cedar City to be processed into Easter dinner, which I did just two weeks ago.

I have known forever that for us to live, something has to die — even vegetarians kill plants in order to eat – but knowing that surely doesn’t make things easier.

Ah well, life goes on.

“Rural Rants” is a column about rural living and the people who live here. It appears the first and third Wednesday of the month. Your comments and input are important and will be appreciated. Contact me via email at mouse@mvdsl.com