Veganist_ Lose Weight, Get Healthy, Change the World - Kathy Freston [63]
At some point, I’m sure my father explained what was going to happen. He must have told me he was going to shoot a pig so we could make sausage and have bacon and pork chops, which I liked. But all I really remember about our walk is the cold air and the wet grass and feeling snug and safe and warm in my gray coat.
The hog pens were on two large concrete slabs that were tilted slightly to allow the manure to be easily hosed into a central trough that drained into a nearby cesspool. There were six pens in all, separated by horizontal metal pipes welded to upright metal posts. My father handed me the rifle to hold while he climbed over the bars into one of the pens, where there were about a dozen young pigs. Once he was inside, I handed him the rifle and he pulled me up onto the edge of the slab where I could hold onto the bars from the outside and see into the pen.
They were only three or four months old, nowhere near full grown. I was struck by how evident their different personalities were. Some were playing, running around each other in circles. They would press against one another, then do a little trick where one pig would stick her snout under the belly of another pig and lift him up an inch or so then turn and run, and the pig who had been lifted would chase after her like they were playing tag. Two or three pigs, however, stood perfectly still, watching my father’s every move as though they were aware that something was different about this morning. Most of them, though, thinking they were about to be fed, gathered around my father, who looked them over carefully then pointed to one of the pigs who was nuzzling his leg for food, and said, I think this is the one we want.
Using the barrel of the rifle, he gently tapped the pig on his shoulders, guiding him away from the other pigs toward the corner of the pen nearest where I was standing. To me, the pig seemed to think this was some kind of game he was eager to play but didn’t quite understand. With each tap, he would take a step forward then look back over his shoulder at my father, as though to check to see if he was doing it right. After a few more steps, when the pig was in the right position facing into the corner a few feet from where I was standing, my father glanced over to make sure I was watching, then he moved the muzzle of the gun to the back of the pig’s head. The pig tilted his head slightly and looked up at me. He gave a little grunt. My father pulled the trigger.
The bullet shattered the pig’s forehead on its exit and sent a fine splattering of blood into the air. I blinked when I felt the warm mist on my face and hands. When I opened my eyes, I saw the pig lying on his side and a thick stream of blood running from his head down the slanted concrete. The other pigs had scrambled for the opposite corner and were squealing and climbing on top of each other trying to get as far away as possible. My father knelt to make sure the pig was dead, then looked up for my reaction. I’m sure his heart stopped a moment when he saw me. I was covered with tiny drops of blood. He jumped out of the pen, lifted me off the slab and carried me to a water faucet where he wet his handkerchief, wiped the blood off my face, and washed my hands under the cold running water.
I remember that he was talking, but I don’t remember anything he said. I pulled away from him and started walking back to the house. He called, but I didn’t answer. Instead, I started running. I was again aware of the wet grass and the cold air, and I kept thinking that just a few minutes earlier, the blood on my coat had been