Reflections on a Hog Killing

I have given a considerable amount of thought to our experience recently at Aspen Rd Farm. Particularly, as it relates to the killing of a pig. Nate Woller, husband, father, fireman, farmer, had been anticipating this day for the better part of a year since he brought his Gloucestershire Old Spot/Large Black piglets home to raise for his family’s freezer. And for only eight month old pigs, these guys were huge! Pushing 400 lbs each. The reason they were so big is because Nate experimented with their feed rationing until he determined that they were happiest with “free choice”, that is, keeping their feed trough full (of organic/non-gmo feed) and allowing them access to it whenever they chose, morning, noon, or night. This method is rich with both pros and cons, but we will not be addressing that here.
The other thing that bears noting about his pigs was their disposition. While they were not pets, and demonstrated an obvious independence and aloofness that’s to be expected with livestock, they were neither timid nor aggressive. If you walked into their pen or paddock they would not run to you or away from you. If they approached, it was likely in the hopes of getting a scratch behind the ears, and be on their way. These pigs had always been treated well, there was no doubt about that. In fact, the primary reason for the on-farm kill was perfectly consistent with the husbandry ethic established at Aspen Rd Farm. Neither Nate or his wife Nicki wanted their pigs to experience the stress of being loaded onto a livestock trailer to be taken to the local slaughterhouse. The pig farmer does not often have the luxury to make this decision. Choosing the on-farm kill is not without its own stresses however…but most of them are on the farmer.
It has become customary on these mornings, a tradition in fact, for us to read a poem by Wendell Berry, my role model. The poem is entitled: On the Hog Killing. You can look it up if you like, but out of reverence, I will not copy it here. I only know to associate the poem with the act, and I have no intentions of killing a pig this morning in my bath robe. But I will mention that the poem is something of a blessing, an entreatment, on the heavy occasion…that the pig may fall with the sound of the rifle still in the air.
After the poem and a prayer were offered, Nate took his rifle across the pen to the shelter that the pigs knew as home. There is no occasion to die more serene, for any living creature, than in its sleep. There was total silence for thirty seconds as the rifle was trained on that magic spot where the skull plate tapers and still conceals the brain. I could almost hear my heart beating as I gently pet the second pig 25 feet away. And then, click. The safety was off, but the gun wasn’t cocked. Nate had no choice but to throw the bolt to put the shell in the chamber. With the sound of the bolt action, the pig opened its eyes, raised its head, and offered a soft snort. And here is where the previous eight months of excellent husbandry revealed itself. Seeing Nate, and being comforted by his presence only inches away, the pig closed its eyes again and rested its chin back on the straw bedding. A few intense seconds passed as Nate placed his trajectory exactly where it needed to be, and squeezed off one round from his .22 long rifle.
I know that not everyone cares for this sort of thing…Killing animals, eating animals… Raising animals to be killed for food. And those well-intentioned people are perfectly entitled to their opinions and their tofurkey. But I submit, if this was how animals had been raised and killed for the past 40-50 years (as they had been for generations prior), we would have a very different understanding of the dynamic between man and beast, and our role therein. With a consistent ethic that threads its way through the discipline of husbandry, to the nearly lost knowledge of harvesting livestock in the barnyard , justice and mercy can be established and even exemplified on the farm.