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From the time I started volunteering at the sanctuary, Sophie claimed a special place in my heart. Even more so than the other pigs, Sophie has always had lots of trouble walking. Her hips are sill and her knees no longer bend. She walks by throwing one straight leg forward and then the other. Still, she gets around the barn and the field and even goes out to the mud bath. And wherever Sophie is, if you call out to her, she will sit up, look right at you and grunt as if to say, "Hello, come see me, come over." She calls us to step over the fence, scratch behind her ears, rub her forehead.
Like Sophie, the other pigs are Hampshires, black with a white stripe across their shoulders. There are ten in the herd, all from the same rescue. They had come from a rodeo, where the plan was the force them into a greased pig chase, then slaughter and roast them as a grand finale.
I call the pigs a "herd" but it's more like a tribe. Once when Andy had to be strained to get a shot of antibiotics, he screamed. All the other pigs came into the barn, grunting in rhythm. The sound reverberated so loudly against the walls we humans couldn't hear each other speak. The pigs grunted in duets or trios, snout to snout, their bellies heaving, and every deep grunt felt like it was going right down our spines. When Andy's shot was done, they all went about their business, back into the yard or to piles of straw. Last year, the Hampshire pigs turned eight, an old age for pigs bred to reach "market weight," namely slaughter weight, in six months. By eight years, they had grown way past market weight. For years, they'd lived with bodies that were too big for their bones, too big for their joints and tendons. With six - or seven-hundred-pound bodies balanced on tiny ballerina feet, all of our pigs have some difficulty walking. Stubby is the biggest; Cromwell snores when he sleeps and pins his ears back like he's flying; Zach limps some days but has good days where he's fine. And there's Oliver, who walks to breakfast and dinner with his tongue out; Louie who's quiet for a pig; Lodo who scared us all when he slipped and fell. We thought we'd been the tractor to get him up, but he stood and walked away like nothing so embarrassing as falling could have ever happened to him. And there's Wilbur, sweet and usually first into the feeding area - after Patsy and Judy of course.
Patsy and Judy are pink pigs who came to join the herd as teenagers. They tired to establish their position in the tight knit tribe by singling out Sophie - the pig with the most trouble walking - and tormenting her. I used to try and sneak treats to Sophie, but that backfired around the pink pigs. Any treat Sophie got was a huge affront to them. They'd bite her legs and chase her around the barn. Or they'd walk up to her with a high-pitched squeal like some mean-girl threat of "I'm going to get you." Or they'd mount her when she was lying by the pond, throwing themselves diagonally across her back. They left the other two female Hampshires, Dharma and Dolly, more or less alone. Sophie suffered the brunt.
When not bothered by Patsy and Judy, Sophie, Dharma, and Dolly, the three herd matrons, would lie nose to nose in the mud pool during the hot days or next to each other like straw in the barn - just as they had for their whole lives. They ate together and slept together. They hung out with the boys, too, built they were a trio - from the potential rodeo-barbeque to right years later, they were the old ladies at the sanctuary.
Dharma was sturdy on her feet and always made it to breakfast and dinner. Dolly was just wobbly. Walking foro her was never point A to B, more of a meandering from side to side.
Toward the end of one summer, Dolly was wobbling so much, that the sanctuary director sent her to the veterinary hospital at Cornell University. In surgery, the doctors found inoperable tumors on Dolly's spine that were not only throwing her off balance, but were most likely causing her a lot of pain as well. Dolly was euthanized under anesthesia.
And, then there was just two, Dharma and Sophie. And of course the two pink, Sophie-tormenting teens, Judy and Patsy.
A month after Dolly died, Dharma developed a tumor in her uterus, a common occurrence in female pigs. Veterinarians discovered the tumor has grown so close to her heart that it couldn't be removed. Dharma never made it back home; she too was euthanized.
A few days after Dharma died, I went into the pig barn, calling out, "Soph! Sophie!" She sat up and grunted "hello" back. I stepped over the fence and knelt by her. She looked at me, like she always does, straight in the eye. The thought occur ed to me that no one had told her - she didn't know. "Dharma's gone, Sophie," I said, "She's not coming back."
Sophie grunted and turned away from me, something she'd never done before. Then Judy came into the bar. She walked over the Sophie, snorting with her snout in the straw. I thought, "Great, Sophie loses her last, dearest friend and now the tormenting resumes." Judy put her pink nose against Sophie's, but she didn't bite her. Instead, she started arranging straw into a bed with her hoof. I stopped petting Sophie and sat back to watch.
Judy made her a pile of straw then lay down next to Sophie, who was still turned away from me. Without hesitating, Sophie lifted her head and put it on Judy's pink shoulder. As I turned the lights out and closed the door to the barn, there they were, Sophie and Judy, going into the night, head to shoulder, snout to snout, heart to heart.
-Jean Rhode
Like Sophie, the other pigs are Hampshires, black with a white stripe across their shoulders. There are ten in the herd, all from the same rescue. They had come from a rodeo, where the plan was the force them into a greased pig chase, then slaughter and roast them as a grand finale.
I call the pigs a "herd" but it's more like a tribe. Once when Andy had to be strained to get a shot of antibiotics, he screamed. All the other pigs came into the barn, grunting in rhythm. The sound reverberated so loudly against the walls we humans couldn't hear each other speak. The pigs grunted in duets or trios, snout to snout, their bellies heaving, and every deep grunt felt like it was going right down our spines. When Andy's shot was done, they all went about their business, back into the yard or to piles of straw. Last year, the Hampshire pigs turned eight, an old age for pigs bred to reach "market weight," namely slaughter weight, in six months. By eight years, they had grown way past market weight. For years, they'd lived with bodies that were too big for their bones, too big for their joints and tendons. With six - or seven-hundred-pound bodies balanced on tiny ballerina feet, all of our pigs have some difficulty walking. Stubby is the biggest; Cromwell snores when he sleeps and pins his ears back like he's flying; Zach limps some days but has good days where he's fine. And there's Oliver, who walks to breakfast and dinner with his tongue out; Louie who's quiet for a pig; Lodo who scared us all when he slipped and fell. We thought we'd been the tractor to get him up, but he stood and walked away like nothing so embarrassing as falling could have ever happened to him. And there's Wilbur, sweet and usually first into the feeding area - after Patsy and Judy of course.
Patsy and Judy are pink pigs who came to join the herd as teenagers. They tired to establish their position in the tight knit tribe by singling out Sophie - the pig with the most trouble walking - and tormenting her. I used to try and sneak treats to Sophie, but that backfired around the pink pigs. Any treat Sophie got was a huge affront to them. They'd bite her legs and chase her around the barn. Or they'd walk up to her with a high-pitched squeal like some mean-girl threat of "I'm going to get you." Or they'd mount her when she was lying by the pond, throwing themselves diagonally across her back. They left the other two female Hampshires, Dharma and Dolly, more or less alone. Sophie suffered the brunt.
When not bothered by Patsy and Judy, Sophie, Dharma, and Dolly, the three herd matrons, would lie nose to nose in the mud pool during the hot days or next to each other like straw in the barn - just as they had for their whole lives. They ate together and slept together. They hung out with the boys, too, built they were a trio - from the potential rodeo-barbeque to right years later, they were the old ladies at the sanctuary.
Dharma was sturdy on her feet and always made it to breakfast and dinner. Dolly was just wobbly. Walking foro her was never point A to B, more of a meandering from side to side.
Toward the end of one summer, Dolly was wobbling so much, that the sanctuary director sent her to the veterinary hospital at Cornell University. In surgery, the doctors found inoperable tumors on Dolly's spine that were not only throwing her off balance, but were most likely causing her a lot of pain as well. Dolly was euthanized under anesthesia.
And, then there was just two, Dharma and Sophie. And of course the two pink, Sophie-tormenting teens, Judy and Patsy.
A month after Dolly died, Dharma developed a tumor in her uterus, a common occurrence in female pigs. Veterinarians discovered the tumor has grown so close to her heart that it couldn't be removed. Dharma never made it back home; she too was euthanized.
A few days after Dharma died, I went into the pig barn, calling out, "Soph! Sophie!" She sat up and grunted "hello" back. I stepped over the fence and knelt by her. She looked at me, like she always does, straight in the eye. The thought occur ed to me that no one had told her - she didn't know. "Dharma's gone, Sophie," I said, "She's not coming back."
Sophie grunted and turned away from me, something she'd never done before. Then Judy came into the bar. She walked over the Sophie, snorting with her snout in the straw. I thought, "Great, Sophie loses her last, dearest friend and now the tormenting resumes." Judy put her pink nose against Sophie's, but she didn't bite her. Instead, she started arranging straw into a bed with her hoof. I stopped petting Sophie and sat back to watch.
Judy made her a pile of straw then lay down next to Sophie, who was still turned away from me. Without hesitating, Sophie lifted her head and put it on Judy's pink shoulder. As I turned the lights out and closed the door to the barn, there they were, Sophie and Judy, going into the night, head to shoulder, snout to snout, heart to heart.
-Jean Rhode
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