Tomorrow the three pigs will go to the processsor along with a pig from another farm close by. Processor is just a polite term for slaughterhouse, a term that always makes me cringe.
Living on a farm one is supposed to become steeled to the fact that animals are part of the food chain and in some ways I have come to terms with that. But the pigs.... The pigs are more amicable. You can scratch behind their ears and they make grunting noises. You can pat their solid backs and sides and they snort. You can rub their pink, rubbery noses and they look at you trustingly. Am I turning the pigs into my own versions of Babe?
I've tried to push it to the back of my mind all day but each time I think of their fate, I feel rather sick. They've had good lives. They've eaten corn and apples and potatoes and had the best accomodation, clean water, listened to CBC in the absence of humans and had geese and baby ducks for pen mates. They've had heat lamps to take off the chill of night when they were small and large fans to cool them in the hottest days. They've lived a good life. Just rather short. They are 24 weeks old and weigh about 180 pounds each. There are people waiting for the meat, but I still don't know if I can eat them.
Farm life sucks sometimes.
So I draw. The beginning of a sketch of Tripod. That accusing stare. His right eye I think was affected by the loss of his leg on that side and is sometimes closed more. Its more apparent in this drawing and makes it look lopsided, but the eyes really are shaped differently.