Who are we to argue with the scheme of things? If not for the desire to kill it prematurely, the pig would never see the light of day. Pigs die sooner than they hope, that is all. But maybe we all do. In many ways, the pig had a good life. She rooted around in a field while the weather was good. When temperatures dropped in November, we moved her to a cozy stall. She never went hungry. She never had to read the editorial pages, listen to the radio, or attend a political convention. Never once did she go to the dentist nor ever file an income tax return. She had a good life. If a serious breakdown in the division of labor occurs, you will be ready for it. We then tied the rope around both of the pig’s back legs and hoisted it up with the tractor. The corpse was taken back near the house. There, it was laid on a pile of straw and covered up as though it was to be given a Viking’s funeral. The straw was lit and soon blazed up. After a few minutes, the pig was turned over and more straw added. The idea was to burn off the hair and sear the skin. “This is the old-fashioned method,” said Mr. Deshais. “They don’t do it this way in the slaughterhouses. They just dip the animal in scalding water to get the hair off. But this way is better – the skin has a better flavor.” By this time, the pig looked like the victim of a four-alarm blaze in a Baltimore rowhouse, blackened by fire and smoke. Mr. Deshais
Mr. Deshais raised the hammer and brought it down solidly on the pig’s head. The animal squealed as though it were being killed. But it had not been knocked out. It took another blow... and then another... before the pig finally fell. By then, the pig’s squeals had alarmed everyone. Even the cows, grazing in the nearby field came over to the gate to see what was the matter. Once on the ground, Mr. Deshais took a knife and forced it into the throat. The idea was to puncture the aorta of the heart. He cursed himself for having driven the knife in too high up the neck. But it found its mark anyway – blood, bright red blood, spurted out. “Get the pan,” shouted Patrice. “Don’t waste the blood.” A skillet was held under the neck to collect the blood, used for making blood sausage. But the hog was not dead. It revived, even as its blood gushed out. Some of the blood missed the pan, as the pig thrashed about on the ground. Patrice seemed to regret every drop. Finally, the blood flow dropped off to a trickle and the pig stopped breathing. Where only a few seconds ago, the big animal howled and squirmed, now the life force had gone out of it. Edward approached cautiously. The killing was over. All of sudden, it was quiet. The cows stood silently looking at us as though we were murderers. The other hogs, still in the pigsty, said not a word. Your editor wondered how men could kill one another. Killing a hog is hard enough. But that is the way of the world; pigs are raised up just so they can be brought down.
66 June 2018
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