The Unexpected Genius of Pigs

by Matt Whyman

  ‘So, do you feed them first?’

  Wendy looks at me witheringly. ‘By the time I finish milking, the pigs will have given up,’ she says. ‘They usually last about five minutes, and then think, “Oh, God, she’s not coming!’’’

  ‘But you always do,’ I say, and question why they need to be so vocal when the meal is guaranteed.

  ‘I think they just create purely in hope,’ she says.

  I dwell on this for a moment. I have never thought of a creature as being inherently pessimistic or optimistic, but Wendy’s observation strikes me as spot on. When Butch and Roxi unleashed their dawn chorus it sounded diabolical. Nevertheless, I couldn’t fault the lust with which they delivered every squeal. It was never meant in malice, and the pair were always pleased to see me as I sprinted out to silence them.

  That squeal will always be capable of curdling the blood, I decide. Unlike a honk, it’s hard to read any sense of joy or anticipation in it, but if we can recognise that the pig has a good heart then it makes that racket a little more bearable.

  The silence of the pigs

  Two of my children were very young when we had Butch and Roxi. For them, it was quite normal to see two fully-grown pigs join us on the patio in the summertime. For all the challenges that the pigs presented, it was a formative experience for my little ones. They would often toddle down for a visit, and Butch and Roxi were always gracious hosts.

  ‘Just make sure that you shut the gate when you leave,’ I would always say before they headed out on an adventure of their own. From my office, I could hear my son and daughter chatting on their way down to the enclosure. Butch and Roxi would then join in the conversation while I worked. Like me, or anyone else in the company of pigs, my children would talk with them for quite some time. It was lovely to hear, and generally such a gentle background ambience that I would lose myself in writing. Of course, I always registered their return to the house, and then pressed on knowing they were safely inside.

  On one occasion only, it was what I didn’t hear after the children were back in the house that slowly drew me from the keyboard to the window.

  I had grown used to the persistent honking. Along with birdsong or a breeze rustling the trees, the sound of two pigs passing the time had become a part of my aural landscape. If they were talking to one another, then that meant they were content. Squealing was a different story, of course, but on some level registering that I couldn’t hear them at all set my alarms bells ringing.

  On the one hand it was a relief to see that Butch and Roxi hadn’t found a way to break through the fence again. It meant I didn’t have to devote the rest of my day to tracking down errant livestock who had no movement licence or permission to trash the village. On the other, the sight of my lawn left me with my hands pressed to my head in horror. In the short time that they’d been at work in the garden, having presumably followed my kids through the gate on their way out, the pigs had done their level best to trash it. Instead of neat stripes where I had cut the grass that weekend, I found myself looking at random strips of turf that the pair had uprooted in their exploration of pastures new.

  They were only doing what came instinctively to a pig. What struck me was the fact they were operating in complete silence. Now, it could be that Butch and Roxi were just lost in the reverie of the moment, intoxicated by the rich mineral notes of previously untouched sod and soil.

  Alternatively, and knowing my pigs, I suspected they were wise to the consequences of communicating their joy at this lucky break. Rather than report to each other on ploughing up my lawn, they struck a pact of silence in order to maximise the opportunity.

  It took some persuading on my part to steer them back into the enclosure. As soon as I made my presence known, they responded by finding their voice once more. This time, while I waved my hands uselessly in front of them, I am fairly sure that they were telling each other through a series of stubborn honks to stay strong and simply ignore me.

  Finally, following some blatant bribery with blackberries hurriedly picked from the hedgerow, I closed the gate on Butch and Roxi and turned to survey my garden. Whatever they were saying behind my back just then, the pigs were the last things I wanted to hear.

  In a world of their own

  There is a particular run I enjoy near home that takes me along the spine of rolling hills. I follow an ancient chalk path, smiling and nodding at passing dog walkers, but largely lost in my own world. It’s a beautiful stretch of countryside. On a clear day, it can sometimes seem like I’m closer to the sky than the villages below.

  Towards the end of the run, just as a gentle descent begins, the path cuts through the heart of a sprawling pig farm. Arks made from half-round galvanized steel scatter the landscape. Each one is contained in a paddock that is carefully divided by metal fencing. These large sun-baked and snout-turned spaces are populated by pigs across the generations. They’re divided into groups, but it’s effectively one big community. I can’t say what breed I’m looking at. They’re a pale shade of pink, with drooping ears and swishing curly tails. The adults are large and long, and while their young vary in stature, it’s the very little ones that operate in the highest gear of them all.

  On my approach, I watch and listen for them to register me. The pigs seem quite at peace with their surroundings. Whether they are foraging, resting, playing or simply taking the air, I interpret the endless succession of grunts as a measure of their contentment. Normally, I follow the wide path between the fencing and just run straight through. Today, I find myself slowing to a walk. It’s good to catch my breath. As I do so, one adult lifts its great head and regards me. Several smaller pigs in the enclosure closest to the alley break from what looks like a friendly tussle to investigate. Watching them crowd into the corner at the mouth of the cut-through, I wonder if they assume I have food. I show them my hands, aware that the nature of the grunting has evolved. It still originates from seemingly random points across the farm, but now it’s more widespread.

  If this is chatter, the pigs have just found something new to talk about. I can only imagine what they’re saying, and wonder if they’ll talk to me. Had Emma been here, she would’ve opened with a penetrating, ‘Pig, pig, PIG!’. This was a commonplace call among pig-keepers. Wendy used a similarly effective summons, and while it always earned the immediate attention of the pigs, I just can’t bring myself to make my presence known so commandingly.

  Instead, like an Englishman abroad, I address them in my own language and hope for the best.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’

  With the little pigs at the fence, I crouch down and greet them individually. While the very young stay close to the adults, the next generation appear to be the most inquisitive. Meantime, some of the larger pigs have paused in their rooting and digging just to face me. I note their ears twitch and flap over their eyes. Even if they can’t see me that well, they are listening.

  ‘It’s a lovely day,’ I say, rising once more to saunter onwards. I take just a few steps before I stop and wait for one large sow, who has begun to plod towards me. Vocally, this one is more forthright than the others. It’s a series of short, sharp grunts, and sounds perfectly friendly to me. ‘Good morning!’

  By the time the pig has reached me, still grunting as I press my palm against the fencing, I find myself in a full-blown conversation. It’s as if she answers everything I say in her own way. She even does so with a tip of her head so that she can regard me from under her ears. I look into her eyes just as she looks into mine, and I’m in no doubt that we are communing. Like Wendy, I read what I want from her response, and learn that she’s enjoying the day just as I am. It’s warm with a light breeze, and we’re both up early to make the most of the peace and quiet.

  At one point, I even mimic the sow’s honk. She responds in kind. Maybe it’s encouragement or perhaps she’s simply reporting to the others that this guy has lost his mind. Either way, it’s a perfectly pleasant exchange.


  By the time we part company, the surrounding chatter has subsided somewhat. I look around. Those adult pigs that were watching have returned to the serious business of digging, while the younger ones resume their games without regard for me. As I walk on, following the path through the heart of the pig farm, I like the fact that they are comfortable with my presence. I feel as if I have been assessed, before the word spread across the community that I present no threat or have anything more to offer than passing pleasantries.

  Collectively, they have agreed that I can be trusted. Our language systems are entirely alien to each other, and yet pigs still make an effort to communicate with us. When I give this pause for thought, and appreciate how we attempt to connect in this way, it’s really quite uplifting. I resume my run with a cheery farewell, and leave the sound of honking behind me.

  Minutes later, approaching a busy road towards the foot of the hill, I feel like I have returned to my world. There is a little car park here. Three hikers are just emerging from a hatchback, while a small group of mountain bikers, clad in Lycra and sporting reflective sunglasses, have stopped in preparation for the climb. I raise my hand to acknowledge them all as I run by. Nobody greets me by return. Both the cyclists and the hikers just regard me as being from a different tribe.

  Talking to the animals

  I enjoyed my moment with the pigs on the hill much in the same way I used to like talking to Butch and Roxi as I cleared out their sleeping quarters or mended a fence. I would also converse with my old cat in terms of asking how he was, what he’d been up to across the lane and his napping plans for the day. They weren’t serious questions, nor did I expect an answer. The cat just represented company, even if he did simply stare at me with unbridled contempt as I spoke. The dogs are never quite so harsh, and though they pay attention to everything I say, they’re a little bit like a canine Alexa: primed to activate on just one word, which in this case would be ‘walkies’. Until then, they’re effectively asleep on the inside.

  Conversations with a pig play out very differently.

  Unlike almost any other domesticated animal, whether livestock or a pet, the pig contributes to the conversation. They don’t just listen, waiting for a cue for food or exercise, they talk back. A parrot can be taught to mimic, which is an amazing feat in its own right, and a dog might squeeze out ‘sausages’ on cue, but this is a creature who listens and responds to us by its own free will and in its own language. A pig will rarely interrupt as you talk by grunting and honking over you. In effect, it can hold a conversation for as long as you like and do it with good manners.

  A few days after my hillside run, I go out again on a different trail. This one takes me around the perimeter of sheep fields, and then across a dairy farm on the far side of a fishing lake. As an experiment, I pause in both places to talk to the animals. The sheep simply bolt as soon as I draw breath, and while the cattle are benign, they are much like my kids in that they don’t appear to care what I have to say.

  The pig, on the other hand, picks up on our words and then replies. We can only guess what it understands or what it’s trying to convey, but it’s still remarkable. In fact, this goes further than two people who speak different tongues striking up a dialogue in the hope of some understanding. We’re talking about two different species attempting to bridge that gap. In my mind, that lifts our relationship into a different league.

  Cilla

  Wendy takes me across the courtyard towards the lower field. It strikes me as being a challenging terrain to farm for crops. The land is clay-based, boggy with clumps of grass, and rolls steeply into a gulley. Oak trees, which dim and then brighten as clotted clouds float overhead, seam the landscape on the other side of the fold.

  This, she tells me, is a playground for pigs and home to one of her oldest companions. ‘Cilla is my old retired mother,’ she says, ‘She’s about ten years old, but pigs can live to 18.’

  As we navigate the slop, which is so bad I can feel a tug on my wellingtons every time I lift a foot, I focus my attention on a nearby ark. Three pigs are lazily peering out at us. They’re lying close to each other with their faces in the daylight. There’s room beside them for a fourth pig, who must have clambered out on hearing Wendy’s voice from the track. A stocky little kunekune with buttery-coloured bristles and mud up to her belly picks her way towards us. Judging by the way they greet each other, I can’t decide whether Cilla or Wendy sounds the most pleased.

  ‘Now she’s talking to me,’ says Wendy, over a series of deep-chested grunts from the approaching pig. ‘That’s it, sweetheart! Come and say hello!’

  Following my own attempts at conversing with a pig, Wendy has brought me here to show me how it’s done. At least that’s how I read the situation on listening to the pair. Every time Wendy speaks, the pig meets her gaze and replies in her own way.

  ‘Cilla and I go way back. We’ve won prizes together, haven’t we?’

  Judging by the timing and the tone of her honk, Cilla appears to confirm that they have.

  ‘Is she really conversing with you?’ I ask Wendy, levelling with her now. ‘I mean, seriously?’

  She considers this for a moment while scratching behind the pig’s ears. Cilla oinks contentedly.

  ‘I think so,’ says Wendy, and then returns her attention to the pig. ‘She’s listening as well as having her say. So I suppose that means we’re having a chat. And it’s so nice. She wants to be here. She bothered to come up the field to talk to me.’

  Again the pig responds as if having registered her words. I glance at Cilla’s lady friends in the ark. If Cilla is in fact communicating to them, they seem to be too busy dozing to notice. In the middle distance, at the point where the field tips out of sight towards the gulley, Wendy’s dogs have gathered to dig a hole with unbridled enthusiasm. They seem to take turns and then watch with interest. Wendy tells me they spend their days doing this from one field to another. Compared to the diligent excavation skills of a pig, I do wonder if they risk missing whatever it is they’re looking for. Cilla certainly pays no heed whatsoever to the dogs or her sisters in the ark. Her sole focus is on talking to Wendy. I think about asking what she’s saying, but then realise that’s not the point. What counts here is the simple pleasure of the exchange.

  ‘She doesn’t see too well, but you only have to look into her eyes to realise there’s so much going on in there.’ Wendy switches from scratching behind Cilla’s ears to rubbing her flanks. By now, Cilla is leaning hard against Wendy’s boot. She still acknowledges her voice, but those grunts are increasingly sounding like the cuddle is winning here. ‘Eventually,’ says Wendy, ‘she’ll roll over in the mud and fall asleep.’

  I laugh, but it also strikes me as a perfectly acceptable way to close any conversation between friends. Not just for a pig, I think to myself, but a human, if nobody else is looking.

  6

  The Pig’s Snout

  Lost treasure

  It’s believed to be over 2,000 times more sensitive than the human nose, and with more tactile receptors than the human hand. The pig’s snout might not be regarded as strikingly pretty, but it’s a formidable instrument worthy of our appreciation.

  ‘The snout is a very muscular structure,’ says Professor Mendl. ‘It’s a big rooting disk with a rim they can use to prise up objects … like my drainage cover.’

  I feel his pain to a certain extent. In my experience, once a pig has picked up on a compelling scent there is nothing that will stop it from digging up the source. My first taste of this came before Butch and Roxi supersized themselves, in the short time that they lived in a little ark in my office. I had yet to climb the steep learning curve in livestock management, but it dawned on me at that early stage that pigs of any size weren’t suited to indoor life.

  This was made manifestly evident to me one morning when I found Roxi with her snout jammed between the living-room wall and the radiator. The creak of metal made it clear to me that she was close to popping it free
from its mountings.

  At the time, she was portable enough for me to pick her up, despite the tantrum, and return her to my office. Later, on inspecting the radiator and figuring we would just have to wait until winter to find out if it still worked, I prodded around the back and dislodged a digestive coated in pet hair, fluff and dust. Practically fossilised, the biscuit looked like it had been dropped down there during the Cold War. To Roxi, however, it had come to represent the sole reason for her existence.

  Unsurprisingly, seeing that it practically crumbled to dust in my hand, the biscuit had gone beyond stale. It didn’t smell of anything, in fact. At least nothing I could detect.

  ‘There are lots of nerve endings in the pig’s snout, and in the nasal cavity, which is also very sensitive.’ Professor Mendl has just shown no surprise at my account of the efforts Roxi made to uncover what would surely have been the worst treat in the world. ‘In animal welfare research, if we’re going to evaluate how important something is to the animal, we ask them to work for it,’ he continues. ‘This means we increase the amount of work for less reward and see how much effort they’re prepared to put into it.’

  Immediately, I think of our cat. If I served him a kibble less than a normal mealtime portion, he’d fix me with a stare and then wait for me to correct the error. A pig, I reckon to myself, occupies the opposite end of the fussy spectrum.

  ‘They never seem to give up,’ I say.

  ‘I suspect they would stop if something was immovable,’ the Professor suggests. ‘There has to be a trade-off between desire and energetic expenditure. For example, a pig might be prepared to push through a certain amount of soil to get to a buried acorn. If there’s an even more attractive smell, then that pig might push more, but it won’t try to get through a solid floor.’

  I think about the biscuit once again. It was way beyond its sell-by date and unfit for human consumption. It turned my stomach, and yet to a creature with a more sophisticated olfactory system it had become a valued prize. How must it feel, I wondered, to occupy a world in which smell could seduce and focus the mind so intently? For a pig, the decomposition process must be like the opening of an ancient treasure chest, from inside which aromas are released that it cannot ignore. To be driven by such sensory delights, I decide, can only make life something the pig appreciates way more than we can imagine. It must give rise to an existence, I think to myself, in which nothing is overlooked and everything appreciated.