the end of an era--tammy the pig

it’s truly—the end of an era.  today I whispered a soft prayer to myself, kneeling in a busted, rusted, jalopy of a trailer—shades of rust and blue.  entire sections of metal peeling apart—I kneeled with a bucket of slop perched in between my legs, tilting it forward with quiet hands.  in front of me, just over a foot away, was tammy—our herd’s matriarch.   a living legend.  the mother of my own first pig, and the grandmother to so many in our herd.  our mascot.  and as a farm, and as a business, the cost of carrying a mascot, no matter how loveable or timeless, had become a giant money pit.

a little over a year ago, two weeks before I moved from brooklyn to georgia, her and I visited athens for the weekend to make sure I wasn’t making some sort of horrible decision.  after all, i was brinking on the start of a six month commitment in a place I had never seen doing a job I had never done.  a visit seemed in order. 

at this moment in time, as I was moving to georgia, the world of full moon farms was in flux.  a seven year journey on a piece of land had come to an end, and new partnerships, and new beginnings, were taking place elsewhere.  full moon’s chips had been tossed in the air, and over the last year, they have taken root and blossomed in a bounty of new directions. 

the last thing that remained at the old farm, as I joined farmer j for a ride that first day visiting, was to pick up tammy from the old farm, and pull her in the trailer to the new farm.  and there I was, touching the first pig in my life.  the first experience I ever had on a farm, as a farmer—wanting to become a farmer—was tammy. 

she was a loving and excellent mother.  she had an unquenchable appetite.  she had a stunning, exquisite, deep rusty red coat, with thick, bold arches of hair tapering down her back.  tammy invented an eating style—filling her mouth and throat with as much feed as possible before tilting up and backwards, almost as if cracking up, and letting it guzzle down.  thankfully, though, this is a learned trait, that others now mimic.

I walked around her paddock for a minute, leading her with a bucket of slop.  farmer j always says that this battle was won before it began.  our species wins every time.  we prepare to load a pig, especially a clever and perceptive one, several days ahead of slaughter.  we park the trailer inside their paddock, and switch from feeding them in their normal feeder, to feeding them only inside our trailer.  the day before it’s time to load out, we withhold food for one feeding, driving up hunger, and then guide them onto the trailer with delicious slop.  their biggest weakness. 

she walked up to the the trailer—me inside—the metal floor standing a good foot and a half off the dirt—chest height.  she had just followed me in circles, teased with the offer of slop, and is now standing at the mouth of the same blue trailer from my first day on the farm.  her nose leaned in, and I held the slop just millimeters out of mouth’s reach.  the strength of just her lower lip as it puckered onto the rim of my bucket almost overpowered my two handed grip. 

she stepped one foot into the trailer, and I gave her a bite.  two front feet up.  a bite. two feet up—make it or break it time—and I find myself in the zone.  the same zone as when you wrangle a missing cow.  the same zone as when you slaughter a chicken.  human is animal, and these moments are human. 

I whispered a soft prayer to myself, and thanked g-d for both tammy’s good life, and the nourishment I will receive from her meat.  she still only had two feet up, but I knew it was over.  I momentarily dipped my head, feeling shameful for tricking the great beast, before letting the feeling pass through me like the trailing whisper of a passing cloud.  

she stepped inside, and enjoyed the last bucket of slop of her life.  and I said goodbye.