Pigs these days. I’ll show him. What does he know? He’s lived in the same sty his whole life. Most of it anyway, after he got out of that shit-house he goes on about. ‘Course he likes it here. ‘Course it’s better than those battery farms. Pigs shitting on each others’ faces. Everyone knows that. Even I know that.
But I don’t, do I? Not really. How could I? I haven’t experienced it, have I? I don’t know how good I’ve got it.
Pigs these days. I’ve never seen the like. Maybe I’d like it. How do I know what it’s like to have shit on my face? I’ve only lived here. I don’t know any better.
‘Course I don’t. I can’t compare it to those places. I know nothing about them. I only know here with Mr Griffiths, lovely Mr Griffiths. But why should I love him? Why should I feel grateful?
Why should I say, when the time comes, thanks Mr Griffiths for all you’ve done for me? Thanks for the sty and the field to wander in. Thanks for the roof over my head. Thanks for the constant supply of food. Thanks for the little treats your kids gave me and the hugs and whatnot. Thanks for helping me out that time with that splinter. Now here I am. Kill me. Slaughter me. Eat me. And my friends.
Does it really have to be like that? He says so. Because I can be a fine cut of bacon, a juicy pork chop, a slab of Christmas gammon, a lovely bit of loin, a pork and apple sausage, a succulent cut of belly, a piece of salami or prosciutto or chorizo.
And then I’ll repay Mr Griffiths for all he’s done for me. Which apparently is a good thing, since where would I be without him? Shitting on other pigs’ faces before being turned into Spam, that’s where. Which is what happens at the other place or, according to him, if I don’t repay my debt. Not that I know what that is, though he does. ‘Course he does. He knows everything.
But what about what that new pig said? Just because he was rescued doesn’t mean what this new pig said means nothing. What about the cleaner places, the places with things that keep you warm in winter, heaters or whatever he said? Don’t I deserve that?
He stops living in a place where other pigs shit on your face. I stop living in a place where our sty is cold in winter. It’s only natural. He moves up. I move up. He gets turned into a sausage and I – well, I get turned into, I don’t know, something better, something Mr Griffiths doesn’t even know about.
Why should I want to be eaten by something else? Why should that be the be all and end all?
No. I’ll start tomorrow. Fuck him and all his crap about thinking about others. What about my needs? He keeps us. It’s only right we give back. Why? Can’t he just do that and that alone? Why does it have to be give and take?
No. I refuse. I’m going for the fence. I’ll dig around the spikes – spikes! what’s he need them for if this place is so perfect? I’ll push though the wire, break free.
And if I can’t do that I’ll knock the troughs over, bash in a few walls. See what he thinks about that.
I’ll put Mr Griffiths in a sty, take what I’m owed, even if he and Mr Griffiths get angry and I end up as Spam. I’ll even shit on his face for good measure too.
Then we’ll see who likes it.
- Slaughter of Pigs – Northern Chile’s Agrosuper Plant (preciousjules1985.wordpress.com)
- City Girl Meets Pig Farm (chrischinn.wordpress.com)
- UK Pig Farm Investigation Exposes Horrific Suffering in High Welfare Facilities (preciousjules1985.wordpress.com)
- Pigs, Pigs, Those Intelligent Pigs (themotherofnine9.wordpress.com)
- Learning from Herman… (noordinaryjoy61.wordpress.com)
- A Story About Pig Farming (blogher.com)
- 53 pigs killed by a single lightening-strike in Shenzhen (rvampie.wordpress.com)