We don’t buy very much: some green plastic poles and some metallic string which we can connect to a battery and make into a basic electric fence; a black bucket, also plastic; overalls and some new wellies. This is the most basic of pig-keeping starter kits, but even this makes me feel as though we’ve properly begun. It heralds a life change; it makes it clear that something is on the way. It’s exciting and memorable, like buying your first record, your first make-up, your first bra. It feels like a rite of passage; it feels as though something astounding is about to happen.
Some things we look at but don’t buy: things for the end, for killing a pig, for managing a carcass. We’ve not yet got the weaners; there’s no hurry to equip ourselves for their last days. But it’s in our minds, nonetheless. I look into the cost of buying an additional freezer so that none of the meat is wasted. And I begin to read about abattoir conventions and what it takes to slaughter a pig. Ed works out carcass weights and processing costs. We make an effort to face up to the details of death and we start to edge towards a significant decision: we don’t want our pigs to be subjected to the trauma of an abattoir slaughter; we want to have some control over the act; we want to do the best by them. We read and we talk and we make a promise: when the time comes to kill the pigs, we will kill them ourselves and we will do it here, at home.
But we don’t really know what such a promise means, of course. How many comfortable, middle-class, western European people like us know, these days, what it means to kill a pig? And even now, at the back of my mind, there are doubts. I don’t mention them to Ed, and mostly I ignore them. But every now and again I wonder if I’m really the person to do this, to slaughter an animal; I wonder if I’ll be able to face up to such a task in the end. In an abstract way it seems a reasonable decision, ensuring the most humane end for the pigs, keeping everything close to home, following tradition. But I’m not a nineteenth-century French farmer. I’m a twenty-first-century writer who spends much of the day in front of a laptop and who gets upset when small birds fly into the windows and break their necks. How, then, will I manage with a fully grown pig at my mercy? Do I grasp – really grasp – what that would be like?
Of course I don’t. Not yet. It’s no more than a landmark in the far distance, just about perceptible but unapproachable, indistinct. It’s true that in my reading there are plenty of warnings about taking on the task of killing a pig at home: ‘To kill a hog nicely is so much of a profession,’3 wrote William Cobbett in Cottage Economy in 1828, for example, ‘that it is better to pay a shilling for having it done, than to stab and hack and tear the carcass about.’ But it’s hard to make such advice from the past matter. It’s easy to think we know better. After all, we don’t mean to stab and hack and tear. We mean to be simple and compassionate. It seems right that we should take responsibility for the end of the pigs, as much as for the cute beginning. We’ll have done all the raising ourselves; we’ll be eating all the meat ourselves. It seems logical to take charge of the slaughter as well.
So then: simple and humane. And perhaps a little adventurous. And perhaps, too, with half an eye on our place here in this land of many people’s pasts. Other families have killed a pig here in this house, in this hamlet; so can we. So should we? We’ve been in France now a good handful of years; we have friends, attachments, habits. But there is no way you can come to a different country to live without viewing things for a long time as an outsider and without being an outsider – and the need to belong is powerful and seductive. Is there something, right at the back of my mind, that tells me killing pigs at home will somehow bind me irrevocably to the past, to the place, root my life here so that it seems less transient? Do I hope that this act of slaughter – this sacrifice? – will somehow appease the grumpy old gods who pester us with bills we can’t pay and threaten us with a return to the drizzle of British cities and proper jobs? Much more than simply a means of stocking the larder, killing a pig is traditionally a landmark, a rite, one of those events which acquire resonance through repetition from one generation to the next. Being present at a pig-killing is a mark of respect: to the animal which provides so much, to the family who own it, and to the customs and practices of the neighbourhood. Killing a pig is an act of belonging. Just at the moment, this seems important.
But I don’t agree on the home slaughter with any of these thoughts clear in my mind. I agree to it because I honestly think it will be best for the animals. And it seems sensible to make the decision now, at the beginning, so that we can make proper preparations and so that we can know, from the start, what the end will be. If we go into the process now with our final intentions clear, then there can be no mistake, no doubt.
And it doesn’t occur to me at all that we might change our minds. I don’t really consider that a decision taken in the cool good faith of planning and preparation might be upended by the plain, tangible reality of the pigs themselves. At this point all the reading and discussion seem to make things perfectly clear; we’ve been thorough and pragmatic. It all appears straightforward. Emotion simply doesn’t seem to come into it.
After all, how difficult can it be to kill a pig?
Here they come. The van is bouncing down the track; the trailer bouncing behind. Standing by the low wooden door into the orchard, I watch Benoît manoeuvre deftly across the ruts and tufts to bring the back of the vehicle close. It’s an open trailer and I can see both of the weaners, side by side, their noses raised. They are stocky, about the size of a smallish Labrador, with wide backs and small bright eyes; their ears flap forward and the underside is a soft, leathery greyish-brown. They look about them, tussle and nudge, look again, curious and eager; they keep up a quiet chorus of grunts and chatters, but don’t seem particularly put out by their journey across the main road.
Benoît leans over the side of the trailer and grabs the first weaner by the hind legs, swings it above the bars, tucks it under his arm and carries it through the door, stepping over the string for the electric fence and placing it inside. It squeals energetically, as you would expect a pig to, and squeals more mournfully when it’s left momentarily alone while the whole operation is repeated with the second weaner. But as soon as they’re together, they become quieter, just chattering together in their low grunts. They stand still on a little patch of soil and ivy between slender tree trunks, puzzled and wary, looking about them. They don’t like to move, that’s clear. They don’t trust this place, this ground.
Benoît, too, looks about. He’s a lean, strong man with deep wrinkles and big hands, a slow smile. He tests the solidity of the electric fence, walks the length of it, pushing at posts and wires. He suggests that we put in some additional posts to strengthen it at the corners. They’ll push, he explains, and test all the boundaries. Coming inside, he smiles at the shelter, slaps the plastic table legs hard and says much the same thing: they’ll have this down, in time. He is methodical, businesslike. There’s no chit-chat or pig pleasantry: he checks the pigs will be secure, fed, warm, that’s all.
Then he leaves. The weaners listen hard to the sound of the van and trailer driving away. Still they move only their heads; their trotters are planted. They don’t risk even a step.
We take a close look at what we’ve got. These are beautiful animals. They have a thick dark hide like an elephant’s, with long black hairs which lie flat on their rump and shoulders but which come together in a kind of bristly mane along the length of their backs; they have a fluffy fringe on their brows which sweeps rakishly between the ears. Their skin seems too big for them; it gathers into loose wrinkles around their necks and shoulders, as though they’re wearing a new jumper a few sizes too big. They have squat soft snouts, wrinkled too, leathery to the touch, knobbly knees and wonderfully smooth tensile tails, strong and active, always on the move; sometimes held straight like a rat’s, sometimes curled. The tails of the two pigs are different: one coils more readily and more tightly than the other.
We put down some grain for them, directly on to the gro
und among the trails of ivy leaves which have survived the clearing. It’s a couple of yards from where they’re standing, and so now they have to move if they want to eat. They sniff, hesitate. Yes, they want grain, but in this strange place with these strange people the smells in the air are confusing and foreign, new sounds come unexpectedly, there are risks. They look at us, weighing us up, their faces apparently unchan-ging, and yet somehow full of expression. In the slight dip of their heads and their intense black stare, in the twitch of their ears, they give away their reluctance to move, their astonishment at the way the morning is unfolding, their bewilderment. For long minutes they watch us uneasily, making no noise. But they sniff again, their noses working hard, taking in the comforting cereal smell of the dry grain. And pigs + food is a reliable equation. In the end, they can’t resist. One of them takes a step, and then another step, quickly now, desperate to be first. In an instant, the diffidence has vanished: all of a sudden this pig seems to have made up his mind; all of a sudden this is a competitive pig, active and hungry and focused. And before he’s even reached the pile of food, the other responds. They’re barging and tussling. They each head for the same side and splash their noses through the grain, bringing them up white and floury like old-fashioned Sherbet Dabs. They wrangle for the best spot, push their heads hard together, flick their tails, and finally come to some quiet agreement, settling to serious feeding side by side. The strangeness and menace of arrival seem completely forgotten in the familiar delight of eating together, shoulder to shoulder.
They seem quite content. They eat peacefully and methodically, snuffing up the dry husks with their noses so that it winnows away. There’s no more than a few handfuls of food, but they’re diligent in finding every last speck, truffling into the soil with their noses and nuzzling under leaves and twigs. In this way, with their heads down and their ears flapping over their eyes, they edge gradually away.
Now they’re on the move. All at once mealtime is over and they begin to explore. They trot towards the clump of trees at the far end of the enclosure; they catch the scent of something and begin to dig with their noses; one of them comes back to us, his snout raised and muddy, the other finds the water tray and drinks a little before standing in it and sloshing around. They are inquisitive and confident, and never still: they wrestle with the flapping fabric of my overalls; tip over the plastic bucket and roll it, examine it from all angles as though it was the subject of some experiment; they go back to where the grain was scattered and check nothing has been missed; they sniff the air and listen. They listen a lot, to our voices and to each other and to occasional sounds from outside: cars passing on the distant lane, or tractors; the church bells striking the hour. They briefly examine their shelter but at the moment they don’t show much interest in this: they want to be outside under the bright blue sky, scampering from one thing to the next. I get the sense they are sizing things up: the scope of the enclosure, the strength of the stone walls, the efficacy of the fence, the sweeping possibilities of open land which lie beyond.
It’s not easy to tell them apart. There’s the difference in their tails, but this can be deceptive, since both spring and wiggle so constantly. One weaner’s head is a little longer and narrower than the other, and their frames, too, are slightly different: one is broader, shorter, lower to the ground. As they grow, these variations in build will become more evident – in the months to come we will discover that the pigs have contrasting characters, too – but these two small black animals foraging in front of us have a long way to go, and for now you could be forgiven for thinking they are identical.
We give them names. We need to be able to identify them, one from the other, so that we can know which pig is doing what, which pig is fattening better, which pig is sick or lost. It’s a pragmatic decision and we’re very careful: we don’t give them pet names or indulge in anything fanciful. We don’t want to make them cute or lovable; we simply want to be able to tell them apart. We look them over and decide the minor variation in physique will be enough to define them, so we just call them ‘Big Pig’ and ‘Little Pig’. Big Pig: Little Pig. Epithets chosen simply on the basis of a slight physical difference, without emotional implications or associations, without any kind of anthropomorphism. Big Pig: Little Pig. It doesn’t seem like much of a concession to sentimentality. How can the name ‘big’ or ‘little’ inspire affection? It’s just a recognition of size, nothing more. But language is a slippery thing and we’re not to know, just yet, how much complex and unique identity can be bundled up in the name ‘Big Pig’, or how much fondness can be implied in the way ‘Little Pig’ becomes the butt of jokes.
At the moment, watching the weaners scrum and squabble on the damp earth of nearly-spring, there’s no way of knowing this.
The pigs are an attraction. Word spreads. Later, when I go down the track with a bucket of food, I find someone has pushed open the wooden door, and I can hear voices from within the enclosure. An elderly couple have walked from one of the nearby hamlets with their toddler grandson and they are standing together just outside the electric fence; the weaners are performing admirably, edging as close as they can, squealing and snuffling and then skittering away. I have no idea how these people knew so soon that the pigs were here.
They appraise the quality of our livestock and judge them to be fine. They inquire, in detail, about what food I’m using. They have plenty of advice. In particular, we should be careful, apparently, of boar who will charge the fence, either in an attempt to free their long-lost kin or to mate with them. I point out that both our pigs are male.
When I come to feed the pigs at the end of the afternoon, new visitors have arrived. These are from further afield, making the journey on an orange tractor; I don’t know them and have never spoken to them, but recognize the woman vaguely as a local farmer. She’s with her father, who looks the pigs over with a practised eye for a long time before agreeing with the earlier assessment that they’re fine stock. Again, there’s a boy, older this time, about ten years old perhaps, old enough to climb over the fence into the enclosure; the pigs snort with delight and bustle happily with their new playmate.
Over the following weeks, most of our neighbours come to see the weaners. Some of them come regularly. Pig-watching, I soon realize, is something everyone seems to enjoy. And I find I, too, spend a long time over the small daily tasks that need doing. For the first few minutes the pigs pay attention to me. They greet me with lively grunts and skip to the fence; they come close, push against me, claim me, and seem to want to rediscover me each time. But once the food has gone down, they pretty much ignore me. They’re quickly busy instead with other things – and yet I stay, and I watch them. I like seeing them rearrange the straw in their bedding, or snout around for grubs, or grumble and tussle. They are entertaining. Their constant activity is somehow uplifting and there’s something soothing about the sight of their elephantine haunches.
This fascination I share with my neighbours doesn’t just seem to be a local quirk. When I go back to my reading I find that people everywhere have been obsessed by pigs for ever. The pig is pervasive in our cultural history, a recurring motif, a touchstone. Which seems a remarkable achievement for a creature that lacks the mystery of, say, a soaring eagle or the beauty of a fine horse or the nobility of a tiger, for an animal that is ordinary and ubiquitous and plump. And of course on the one hand, it’s the ordinariness and plumpness which preoccupy us: the pig is associated with filth, pollution and brutishness, a metaphor for greed and grossness. Think about the common use of words such as ‘hog’, ‘swinish’ or ‘porky’; or phrases like ‘pig-headed’, all of which have connotations of hostility and disgust – here the pig stands for the uncouth and the uncivilized. Quite often, moral judgement is also implied. In the Bible, pigs are often presented as lowly creatures representing deplorable conditions and poor moral choices: ‘As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion’ (Proverbs 11: 22). Centuries l
ater, in a letter of 1749, the Earl of Chesterfield urged his son to discern between acceptable and unacceptable pleasures, between ‘the elegant pleasures of a rational being, and […] the brutal ones of the swine’.
But running alongside this bad press there’s also an enduring connection to the pig which reads like affection, or perhaps even love: the pig as companion, entertainer, provider. Many accounts emphasize the pig as sage and loyal, as an expression of community and well-being and sufficiency. Pig-like creatures appear as valuable members of society in ancient cave paintings: the oldest known representation of another species, painted over 35,000 years ago, survives in a cave on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi, east of Borneo. The reddish ochre drawing shows a babirusa, a strange, rotund beast with thin legs and a pointed nose; its hairy coat is painted with energetic lines and splashes. This is an early form of pig, a deer-pig, and this is what these early people chose to paint, the animal that meant most to them.
Big Pig, Little Pig: A Tale of Two Pigs in France Page 3