Joel Salatin gave us the nice line on “the marvellous pigness of pigs.”
His point is well taken, yet as any pig farmer knows, the one thing more marvellous than the pigness of pigs is the pigheadedness of pig farmers.
For 10 years, we’ve wrestled a side income from our six-acre farm and its weak bottomland loam, located along the Moira River south of Tweed, Ontario. With intensive management, vegetables grow alongside pasture-raised heritage pork, Dexter beef and foraging hens.
Each has its unique place in our farm ecosystem, while our customers keep coming back for delicious sausages and bacon.
But no matter how principled you are with pig farming, there are moments where the pigness of pigs and the pigheadedness of pig farmers collide, and anyone with a capacity for sober second thought questions the whole enterprise.
For me, yesterday was one of those times.
We picked up four weaner pigs for a second batch of pork this year. They were handsome, Tamworth red and as adorable as pigs can be. While we loaded them, my children named them with four well-planned monikers: Piglet, Cleopatra, Hamish and Rabadash the Ridiculous, of Narnian fame.
With the enthusiasm that accompanies every new set of pigs, especially pigs this cute, we brought them home. Since it was raining, I stopped by the house to throw on my dirty chore jacket and a very ragged straw hat for a hands-free umbrella. Thus equipped, we were ready for the ultimate red-carpet ceremony –– feed, a well-working fence, straw in the shed and an eager family of welcoming, pig-headed pig farmers with the usual set of assumptions about the pigs’ future and our ability to dictate that.
The pigs, in all their pigness, had other plans, developed without mutual consultation with all parties. While I was unloading the pig crate, the last one slipped by me, as well as by the secondary line of defense behind me. After a momentary struggle, piggy made a flying leap out of the trailer and onto the ground.
In the chaos of the moment, there were four screaming pigs loose on pasture.
Now, to be clear, I am an advocate for pasturing pigs. Pastured pigs are happier than pigs raised in conventional factory farms, and pork eaters get to enjoy better flavour and incredibly improved levels of Vitamin D and E and other micronutrients. Imagine putting healthy back into your breakfast bacon!
But the problem was, these pigs on pasture were outside the pig fence, not inside. Which, obviously, is a dilemma that is preferably approached with lots of time and deliberation.
The pigs, however, weren’t interested in time or deliberation. They were moving fast in four directions.
Cleopatra, surprisingly enough, cooperated nicely for a quick rodeo roundup and settled down in the pig shed, leaving us with one down and three to go. Hamish and Piglet were last seen heading across the cow pasture at a high rate of speed. Only Rabadash remained in play. And play he did.
After circling the house he headed for the Moira River, where my children managed to corner him on shore. Rab barely hesitated and hit the river like an Olympic swimmer.
I didn’t pause either and raced, as well as one can in heavy barn boots, across the nearby road bridge to the other side, attempting to intercept him on the brushy far bank. Seeing me, he turned back into the river and headed to the far shore, this time under the bridge where two fishermen were contemplating the scene with incredulity. (They told me later they thought it was a deer in the water. Dear Rabadash.) This time, my son, fishing net in hand, attempted a capture.
But yet again, piggy thought differently and turned for a third river crossing. His zig zag pattern put his final downstream landing into the neighboring conservation area, so I rushed through the park entrance and into the parking lot, taking advantage of the moment for a sort of running deliberation.
I was dripping wet, both from the rain and the river, though my torn straw hat was still in place. Water sloshed in my boots. I expect I smelled just a little like, well—a pig. Turning the corner, I realized I had crashed into a sea of tuxedos and fine dresses—a wedding party re-boarding their bus.
A circle of well-dressed gentlemen eyed me as a new item of interest. Noting my hat, one said, “Are you Amish?”
“No,” I assured him, “I’m just using my hat for an umbrella. I’m looking for my pig.”
“A pig!” he chortled. “You’ve got to be Amish!” I ignored him and walked on, only courteous enough to mutter “Hi,” to the bridal couple as I tried to pass as unseen as possible in the shadows on the far side of the park road.
Water was still high along the river due to spring flooding. I expected that the swimming Rabadash would have morphed into an exhausted Rabadash, catching his breath near where he landed, and ventured out in that direction through the river backwaters while water poured into my boots.
I spotted him, out on a small island and found myself speaking much more courteously to him than the newlyweds. (Ever hear of pig whispering?) Rabadash, though, had trust issues, as well as deep reservations about sharing his newly discovered island with a pigheaded pig farmer, and set out for another swim.
I still don’t understand how I caught him. Waist deep, chasing a pig through flooded underbrush, praying under my breath and out loud, I didn’t think I stood a chance. Like a personal miracle, my river-water-greased pig was mine.
He screamed. He bit. He flailed. I was exhausted but held on, all the adrenalin-driven pigheadedness in this pig farmer up against the pigness of the pig.
We struggled up the edge of the river, through water and underbrush and came back to the bridge. The last of the bridal party slowly crossed beside me as the pig squealed like it was in its death throes. This was no dog walk, with a handsome, well-trained dog on a leash and approving admirers.
As I walked, I kept thinking of my friend who says he raises pigs for ‘comic relief.’ With time to think, the comic was edging back into my consciousness, but, ready to drop, relief was no where to be found.
The fishermen marked my progress. I stopped and asked them if they’d prefer pork or fish for dinner. They admired my pig, asking if they could pet it as they had never touched a pig before. That request was graciously granted, though their second request for a photo of the pig farmer and the pig together was a little more difficult. Here my decrepit ‘Amish’ straw hat may have been my saving grace; it hung low over my face, protecting my anonymity as I gave my new-found friend Rabadash a long, approving smile for the photo.
So Rabadash, now Rabadash the Very Ridiculous, and I walked on home. He’s in the pig shed, as piggish as ever, but he’s resting like it’s always been home.
I’m resting too in the house, back from my third pig hunt for Hamish and Piglet. A little sore, I’m thinking about becoming a former pig farmer while the score is tied. Clear thinking should settle the question, confirming the hard truths experience has repeatedly taught me. But then, there is my pigheadedness about pigs, and like a bad addiction, I’m afraid this won’t go away.
And the sad truth is, while I’m most interested in honouring Rabadash’s pigness, mutuality is missing. Rab isn’t in the least preoccupied with honouring the pigheadedness of pig farmers.
—Arlin Weaver