Happily Ever Esther

by Steve Jenkins

  The injury drove home how large the task as well as the risk we had taken on really were. We’d put everything on the line, and in that moment, we felt like we had no idea what we were doing. We’d never had a serious injury to anyone until this moment. Now we were worried about potentially being sued or found negligent because we really weren’t qualified to be operating a farm.

  It’s not that we hadn’t been taking things seriously before, but this was the first time we’d had the general public visit the farm, and that’s extremely different from having a bunch of friends over to help you move. Plus, you hear about crazy lawsuits all the time. Didn’t somebody sue McDonald’s for burning themselves on hot coffee? And win? It’s ridiculous what people sue for these days. Considering the situation at the farm, there were so many potential risks. We had people repairing stone walls, pulling out stumps, using tools, and crossing rough terrain. It seemed to me like an ambulance-chasing lawyer’s dream. I mean, we didn’t think Esther’s true fans had any such ulterior motives, but it’s not like you can completely vet everyone who offers to volunteer at the farm—for all we knew, there could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing somewhere in the mix. We also felt sometimes as if we had an extra target on our backs because of Esther’s online presence and what we at Esther the Wonder Pig stand for as an organization.

  We’ve received a few threatening messages since this all began, some scary enough that we called the police. There’s no denying that Esther poses a threat to the livelihood of certain people in the animal-agriculture industry. We’ve even been blocked on Twitter by the Manitoba Pork Council—maybe Rosie O. has a friend there or something—and a few other very large agricultural organizations, including some government-run agencies. I find this crazy. I typically don’t engage much with those types of organizations, but I felt I had no choice after a certain situation came up in Manitoba.

  In the summer of 2015, a pig escaped from a slaughterhouse and was found wandering the streets. It somehow became a huge news story, and of course the vegan community pleaded for the pig to be released to a sanctuary. Derek and I got involved as well, making phone calls to the appropriate people, including the Manitoba Pork Council, but we were all unsuccessful. The pig, who came to be known as Mercy, was quietly sent to slaughter—even though the authorities told the public that she was receiving medical care. In truth, they never had any intention of letting her live, no matter how hard she fought for her freedom.

  Even before Esther came along, I remember seeing stories of animals escaping from slaughterhouses and running around the city. I always found myself cheering them on, as so many people do. I’d be hoping someone would catch them and whisk them off to a safe-forever home where they’d live out their days in some beautiful rolling pasture. But even then, I managed to keep myself from thinking about the ones who didn’t escape, or the ones who had no one cheering them on.

  But the Mercy situation was different. When they sent Mercy away, I kept engaging on the Manitoba Pork Council’s social media pages in a very Esther way. When they’d tweet something advertising pork loin or bacon, I’d post a picture of Esther beside Shelby or one of the cats, along with something rather benign such as “Why love one but eat the other?” I remained gentle. I was never rude or aggressive. But it was enough to rub them the wrong way, so they blocked me from seeing or responding to their tweets. The animal-agriculture industry relies on marketing to keep people feeling good about consuming their products, so the thought of people starting to think about farm animals the same way we think about companion animals must be terrifying for them.

  It’s that whole situation, along with the messages we got as a result of speaking up so much about it, that really started to concern me about Esther’s security. We already walked with her everywhere she went, but the world is a crazy place, and it doesn’t take too much time watching the news to know people do some truly senseless things. With so much to be aware of, we knew we had to make sure we covered ourselves. Our insurance adjuster came out to the farm, and we purchased a comprehensive policy on the property—and on ourselves.

  As time went on, we hired a staff member to help us keep up with orders from the Esther Store, and additional regular volunteers started to work their way into our daily lives. It was all wonderful, but it took us awhile to get used to it.

  Every morning, Derek’s favorite thing is to take a quick soak in our hot tub, which helps ease a sore back he’s had for years. He also happens to prefer doing this ritual without a bathing suit—not necessarily something our volunteers want to see first thing in the morning (not that I have any complaints). He always says, “It’s just a penis, who cares?” And at the end of the day, he’s right: they all look more or less the same. But we still couldn’t take the chance of offending people, which meant adjusting his hot-tub schedule to make sure he was done by the time people started to arrive. It’s a minor detail, but it was one of the first things we needed to change about our life at the sanctuary. Personal time was still personal, but it could be interrupted at any moment.

  We also had to make sure we were ready whenever people started to arrive, so we could give them instructions for the day and keep everyone on track. The more people who got involved, the more we started to hear everyone else’s thoughts on how things should be done. Having a lot of people around can be a blessing and a curse, both from a management perspective and because you can quickly get into a “too many cooks” situation. Certain helpers would start expressing concerns about a fence or how big the pasture was for B.J. and Escalade. It didn’t matter what got done, there was always somebody—usually at one of the public workdays—who thought they knew a better way.

  But it wasn’t always about what we did. Sometimes it was what we didn’t do.

  Take our first barn cat, Catt Damon. (Yes, you have to love puns if you want to love us.) Catt Damon came to us via the local Humane Society, and like the inspiration for his name, he was incredibly handsome: he was a large longhair with silver-and-black fur. He was quite affectionate and took his job as barn manager very seriously. He slept in a little cat hut in the feed room and would poke his little head out as soon as you visited in the morning. His food bowl was right outside his hut, so sometimes he’d just lean out and eat while he was still in bed.

  We all loved Catt Damon, but one volunteer, Justin, took a particular fancy to him, and as time went on, he got more and more distraught that Catt was a barn cat. He was upset that we hadn’t brought him into the house, and he wasn’t subtle about his feelings. Almost every time we saw him, he’d say something passive-aggressive about it. And Justin was not shy in the sass department. He’d walk around with Catt in his arms when he was heading to lunch or he’d just carry him wherever he went after he’d finished his volunteer chores.

  Derek and I spoke with Justin about it a few times. We reassured him that Catt Damon had everything he could ever need, including a safe barn where we closed him in every night. It didn’t help. On at least one occasion, we found Justin in tears about it. He was a very sensitive man. We tried so hard to reassure him that Catt was all set, but nothing seemed to put his mind at ease, no matter how hard we tried. As far as we were concerned, Catt was safe. He had what I’m sure most cats would consider a badass house. It was huge, he could explore wherever he wanted, and he got attention from people constantly. He was living large.

  A few weeks went by, and then one morning we went out to the barn and Catt Damon was nowhere to be found. We searched high and low, shaking cat treats in the woods around the barn. We looked everywhere. We didn’t freak out right away, because he had taken himself on a walk once before, and it had been a few hours before we’d found him: he’d gone into the woods and climbed high up in a tree. So this time we thought maybe he’d done the same thing—but a search of the nearby woods brought no signs of Catt Damon.

  Later that day, we got an email from Justin. He told us his schedule had changed and that, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to volunteer re
gularly anymore. Pretty coincidental timing. We didn’t think much of it until the following morning, when we still hadn’t been able to find Catt Damon. Derek was soaking his back in the hot tub when he looked at me and said, “You don’t think Justin stole him, do you?”

  I hadn’t thought of it until that moment, but the wheels immediately started turning in my head. I said, “He wouldn’t do that… would he?”

  To this day, we don’t know what happened to Catt Damon, but his disappearance and Justin’s simultaneous departure seem like too great a coincidence not to be the reasonable explanation. And when Justin said he “wouldn’t be able to volunteer regularly anymore,” what he actually meant was he was never going to return, so… you do the math.

  It was hard enough to think of Catt as being gone, but the thought of him being snagged by a predator in the woods or getting lost somewhere was a much worse scenario than the idea of his having been taken by somebody who loved him. I’d rather think he’s safe and happy with Justin than any of the alternatives, so that’s what I do.

  The learning curve we had with Esther and managing our volunteers was huge, but it was nothing compared to what we needed to learn about running the sanctuary. Creating a sustainable sanctuary was the whole idea, and that included being absolutely certain we had all the insurance and legalities in place to protect us and the organizations we were creating. The “broken bone before brunch” incident also made us far more aware of what heavy tools we employed while working on the property, and who would be allowed to use them. For example, no handing chain saws to volunteers. Instead, we asked for people who owned their own tools to bring them along and to do specific jobs with them. We started being much more precise in giving directions, and we kept a close eye on the volunteers to make sure they didn’t push themselves too hard.

  It’s easy to forget that many people don’t do farm-type labor much these days. Hell, in this digital age, most of us don’t do any type of manual labor much. We try to offer various jobs—some super easy, some more strenuous—and let people decide what they want to do. And every workday we learn something new, so we’re constantly adjusting how we do things so as to keep everyone safe while still making their day fun and memorable. We want to start helping people expand upon the relationship they have with Esther through the Happily Ever Esther Farm Sanctuary and all of its residents.

  Esther is just the key that opens the door. Happily Ever Esther Farm Sanctuary is what helps us drive our message home as people realize that every pig is like Esther. Every cow, every chicken, every single animal has just as much personality as a puppy. That’s what we want everyone to know, and getting people to come back time and again is how we’re going to achieve that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By now, Esther was starting to show signs of her old personality from the Georgetown days: thankfully, she was calmer, friendlier, more relaxed. In retrospect, I guess I can see what happened. Teenage years already are tough on humans, right? And then when a teenager gets uprooted from home and has to acclimate to a new home, a new life? Everyone knows a lot of teens in that situation start acting out. And goodness knows Esther is about as humanlike as any animal you’ve ever met. She was going through a phase, I figure. It was no fun for her, and definitely no fun for us, but we survived it.

  I was so happy to have my baby girl back, and it wasn’t a moment too soon. I’d been ever more concerned that we had caused her so much trouble our first few months here that we’d never see the old Esther again. For a while, I thought I’d be forever rejected by her, treated the same way she treats the vet. It always made me laugh when Esther got strange with the vet. She wouldn’t let him get near her, all because he had given her a needle one time. You know that old saying, “An elephant never forgets”? I swear it applies to pigs too. Their memories are incredible.

  For example, when we lived in Georgetown, before the move, Esther once got into a box of Cheerios in the cupboard and took it into the living room. We managed to get most of them away from her, and then we sent her to the backyard so we could finish cleaning up. (Good luck ever trying to clean up after a 650-pound pig when she’s still on-site.) She stayed out for well over an hour, having settled in for a yard nap after her customary rooting session in one of my once-incredible perennial gardens.

  As soon as she came back inside, she went straight for the living room where we had confiscated the cereal, and proceeded to use her snout to lift the couch—so she could inspect underneath for lingering Cheerios. She didn’t miss a beat. And that’s how it always went: no matter how long it had been since something occurred, she remembered. It was the same with the vet. She associated him with a bad experience, and no matter what, she wasn’t going to forget it.

  Aside from the battles we would have in the forest, Esther rarely challenged us—or one of our house animals—for much of anything. Occasionally, we’d see a little scuffle over the bed, or who was going to finish the last kibble in the dog bowl. You know, the one that was sitting there all day until someone else expressed an interest in it, and now everyone wanted it.

  But that peaceful, easy feeling lasted only a short while. Yes, she was doing fine with her two dads (thank everything that is holy), but then she started showing some bold behaviors with the other animals. Previously, Shelby had been the “top dog.” She ruled the roost as far as where she wanted to eat and sleep. If Shelby was lying in the middle of the room, Esther would walk completely around her, and Esther also gave Shelby plenty of space to eat at dinnertime. But as time passed at the farm, we started to see little glimmers of a rivalry between Esther and Shelby, mostly stemming from Esther.

  Shelby’s spot was in front of the sliding door. She loved to lie on the tiles once they’d been warmed up by the sun over the course of the day. It was probably much like a heating pad for her muscles, which at seventeen years old must have been getting a little stiff. But now, instead of just walking around Shelby or waiting for her to move, Esther would plow right through. Shelby wasn’t used to this kind of behavior, so she would stand her ground with zero intention of moving. But that didn’t matter to Esther. She was going where she wanted, whether Shelby moved or not. On more than one occasion, Esther stepped on Shelby’s tail or knocked Shelby over as she barged on through. Esther was clearly starting to throw her weight around within our family herd structure. She was trying to move up in rank.

  We didn’t know this until we got to the farm, but family structure means everything to pigs in groups. The whole alpha concept is just as true for pigs as it is for dogs (and humans). There’s always a top hog, and the others fall in line. At some point, the top hog gets up there in age, and a younger one will challenge for top position. It’s a common trait of pack animals, and it’s not pretty to watch. It’s no secret that Esther is a big girl, and when you have a 650-pound animal literally throwing her weight around, either you move or you get hurt. We understood that, but Shelby, who’s all of seventy-five pounds soaking wet, wasn’t catching the hint.

  For months, we had been worried about losing our relationship with Esther due to her behavior, but we hadn’t expected to also deal with a reshuffling of ranks within our group of four-legged family members. Derek and I had always assumed we were the bosses, but Esther had other plans, and they were adding yet another new dynamic to our family.

  Around the same time, things were also starting to get a bit crazy in the barn. For the first time ever, we had to deal with multiple herds of pigs out there. Initially it was just Dan, Leonard, Bobbie, and Bear, and they got along beautifully. We had recently added April. She had gone into quarantine upon arrival, only to have her babies a few days later, well before we were able to do any integrating between April and the other pigs. The arrival of her piglets meant we would need to maintain the two herds indefinitely.

  Dan and his piggy pals had been together for years, having arrived in unison from another sanctuary, but April didn’t have a connection to Dan’s group. Her mothering instincts were taking
over, and she was ready to throw down anytime one of the other pigs came near her stall or walked up to the fences when her piglets were outside. We could tell the two herds weren’t making friends with each other, and with the piglet situation, we decided we wouldn’t even try to form one combined herd. They were two distinct family groups, and it looked like it would stay that way.

  Space already was getting tight in there, and our experience with Esther told us it wasn’t going to be very long before April and her crew outgrew their stall. We had just finished preparing space for B.J. and Escalade, along with making sure the other pigs had a secure pasture to explore. We now realized we would need even more space in the very near future. It hadn’t even been a full year yet, and already we were approaching capacity for our barn.

  Because the weather was warming up, we were able to move B.J. and Escalade from the barn into the pasture where the cows lived. That freed up a little space in the barn, which became the perfect place for our quickly expanding goat herd to live. With everybody’s temporary living arrangements sorted out, we started planning our first “barn build.”

  Our cows had not yet come into the barn. Even when they had direct access, they seemed to prefer being outside. So we decided to build in the pasture behind the barn for our largest residents, moving the goats into B.J. and Escalade’s old space. We looked online for design ideas and eventually decided on a twenty-four-by-sixteen-foot, board-and-batten building with a sheet-metal roof. We used six-by-six-inch posts, so if you literally drove a truck into the building, I suspect the truck would come out in worse condition than the building. It looks amazing, and the new addition finally allowed us to spread everyone out a little bit, taking advantage of some of the still-unused land we had available.