When we first
moved to our farm, we purchased two Duroc barrows for the express purpose
of putting them in the freezer. They were meat animals, plain, pure
and simple. We named them so: Porkchop and Hambone. The
kids were prepared well in advance that at some point these animals would
leave their pen and enter our freezer. Being a family that hunts,
this came as no surprise and was readily accepted; the kids gave the hogs
a wide berth.
We treated these
animals with respect and kindness, they were well fed and comfortably
sheltered, and even given a modicum of attention to "keep them friendly."
Despite their dubious futures, we were under the impression that we could
pet and care for these animals and still covet the meat. I still
feel that way.
The day came when Porkchop, the heavier of the two hogs, was due to meet
his fate, so we pulled the trailer around to load him up for his ride to
the slaughterhouse. We were not prepared to slaughter this animal
ourselves. We did not have the know-how or the facilities to do it
properly.
I knew by the angle of the trailer and the proximity of the gate, that
if Porkchop so chose he could easily find an escape route. Well, he
chose so. He wriggled his way through the gap and was heading for
the front gate before I could form the words to tell my husband that he
was loose.
He hit the gate and made a sharp left into the neighbor's pasture and as
he passed the property line fence, which consisted of one strand of
electric, he got zapped. No amount of pushing, pulling, baiting,
begging, or reasoning was going to get this pig to come back out the way
he went in. We took the fence down and even walked back and forth
through the opening to show him the danger had passed, but no cookie.
The thing was discussed and my husband made up his mind that there was
only one alternative so that the neighbor could get his fence back up and
we could get on our way. He sent my son into the house to get the gun.
I gave the kids, 11, 12, and 15 years old, the option of being present
or not, based on their own personal squeamish scales, and they all decided
they could handle it. My son hunts regularly and was well prepared
for what was coming. The girls and I plugged our ears with our
fingers, and alternately opened and snapped shut our eyes in horrible
anticipation. My husband baited Porkchop close, and he ambled up
like a pig who had never been abused in his life and never expected he
would be.
If the first shot had done the deed then I suppose I wouldn't have
broken down and sobbed like a baby, but it didn't. Porkchop squealed and
shook his head like he'd been stung in the forehead by a particularly
nasty bee. It took two more shots to accomplish the goal and by this
time all three of us girls were sobbing openly. Porkchop
was blissfully unaware that we were the source of his pain, I however was
not, and at that moment I was the most wretched creature on earth.
It felt like the worst kind of betrayal. It was only moments, but it
seemed an eternity before the pig was finally still and I let out a low
sigh of relief.
My husband crossed the pasture toward me, the gun dangling limply from
his hand, his eyes on the ground before him.
"I didn't want to have to do that," he said softly, letting out a shaky
breath. I got a mental image of him leaning over the pen wall and
scratching Porkchop behind the ear, as I had seen him do so many times.
There was nothing I could say to make him feel any better.
