If it seems unlikely for a
vegetarian (that would be
me) to own a couple of table-
bound pigs, it probably
seems downright absurd
that their names should be
Tender and Delicious.
And yet, there they are,
in their little house, behind
their fence, a couple hundred
yards behind the
house here at Schoolhouse
Farm. They’ve been here
since earlier in the summer.
For my part, I’ve never
been so glad to have had a
series of sinus allergies that
have impaired my olfactory
abilities.
Having spent even just a
little bit of time with them,
I’ve begun to wonder exactly
how it is that pigs ever
became such a popular
farm animal. Perhaps it is
a testament to the supreme
gastronomical pleasure of
bacon and pork chops, because
they seem to be
among the more difficult
animals to bring from farm
to table.
First, there’s the smell.
Oh. My. Lord. The smell.
It would be more pleasant
to raise a herd of skunks
with major anxiety disorders.
Then there’s that legendary
pig intelligence.
Since I was a little girl, I’ve
heard people compare pigs
to dogs because of their intelligence.
I have it on good
authority that one of the
farmers at The Farmers’
Museum teaches the pigs
there to sit in order to get
their daily meals.
P.S. If you ever have
pigs, teach them to sit in order
to get their food. The
difference between a pig
who will sit and a pig who
just wants to eat is like the
difference between a wolf
and a golden retriever.
At my house, we have
wolves. They are small,
pink, oinking wolves, but
wolves nonetheless.
Remember the pig scene
in “The Wizard of Oz,” before
the twister and Dorothy’s
trip to the Yellow
Brick Road? Dorothy is
walking along the pigs’
fence like a balance beam,
and falls into their pen. All
the adults drop what they’re
doing and race to her rescue.
It’s not because she
fell; it’s because she fell into
a pen full of rutting, carnivorous
animals.
Are pork chops really
that good?
For my part, I try to
have as little interaction as
possible with Tender and
Delicious, especially Delicious.
Tender seems fairly resigned
to her fate as sustenance.
She stays in the pen.
She runs into the mini-barn
when people approach, and
timidly emerges when she
realizes that food is in the
offing. She sleeps like a
hamster under her straw.
Delicious, on the other
hand, is the alpha swine.
She hangs out near the
gate, rears up on her hind
legs to investigate visitors
and snorts out commands.
Feed me! Feed me! Feed
me!
She also gets out on a
semi-regular basis.
Their fence consists of
horizontal boards, like a
horse fence, reinforced inside
with a layer of welded
wire pig fencing that also
goes a couple of feet into
the ground to discourage a
tunneling escape.
Beneath the gate, there
lies a heavy railroad tie to
prevent the girls from exiting
there.
I should say that the
railroad tie is there sometimes,
because Delicious is
adept at moving it out of
her way when she feels the
need. She also has learned
to pull the wire away from
the wood in order to make
an escape.
To date, she has never
traveled far, just rooting
about the fields of Schoolhouse
Farm, trotting close
enough to the dining room
window to send our little
dogs into a flurry of fury.
And when she hears that
her human captives have
returned from their day
passes, she will venture
down to the driveway to
terrify and menace us.
Feed me! Feed me! Feed
me!
What human ancestor of
ours decided that this kind
of animal would make for
ideal livestock? Yes, their
meat is tender (and delicious,
from what I understand),
but the downside is
enormous. How did pigs
win out over, say, deer or
rabbits or one of those other,
gentler breeds that remain
``game’’ instead of
“livestock”?
I would ponder that longer,
but my captor is calling.
Feed me! Feed me! Feed
me!
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
is contemplating a
BLT. You can connect with
her at www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com.
