Today’s story is a little different. Today I invite you to become a little part of the story of a serene place called Ranger’s Refuge–a slice of paradise where hundreds of unwanted and discarded farmed animals have found a new lease on life.
Tucked away in rural Virginia, Ranger’s Refuge has been special to me, as a rescue pig mom, for some time because of its specific devotion to our porcine friends who are all-too-often abandoned and abused. I even decided to make it the beneficiary of sales for my first novel, Dellie’s Run.
It all started on Easter morning in 2001. Lorelei and Ron Pulliam discovered a small black pig scampering about, afraid, with their horses at their equine center. Slowly, Lorelei earned this little pig’s trust and provided him with a forever home at what would become Ranger’s Refuge–named, rightly, after him.
Lorelei then went digging to discover Ranger’s origins and was appalled to learn that his family was living at a farm in extreme neglect. Fortunately, the farmer was persuaded to turn over these pigs, who were soon reunited with Ranger.
Lorelei with Ranger
Ranger not only founded a what would become a permanent home for hundreds to follow in his hoof-steps over the years–but he sparked waves of compassion for all, and even a little laughter, in everyone who met him. Writes Lorelei about Ranger’s role in Gallastar’s therapy program for children:
We began using him in our therapy program as an example of how to overcome abuse and neglect. He was the epitome of power around the other pigs but with grace and gentleness. We used him to teach group after group about not stereotyping or pre-judging. He affected many people. He always ate lunch with the children and even had a slumber party with his friend Regis the dog and the therapeutic riding students. He and Regis would follow me on my horse. One day, he explored too far and the only way to bring him home was to use my bra as a harness. I didn’t care what the neighbors thought – I had my Ranger. Those were the happiest days of my life.
Ranger was also fiercely loyal. When his best friend Bart became very ill, Ranger stood stubbornly by his side. Whenever Bart had to have a shot, Lorelei and Ron would have to lock Ranger out–but he’d just try to break through the door the whole time as Bart cried.
Sadly, after many years of love and unforgettable antics, Ranger passed away in early 2019. But his legacy lives on through every single animal who sets foot, hoof, or paw onto the pastures at Ranger’s Refuge. Currently, there are over 200 animals–pigs, horses, ponies, donkeys, goats, cows, rabbits, and chickens–calling Lorelei and Ron’s place a forever home.
And somehow, through the daily toil, sweat, and even tears, Lorelei manages to not only care for this rescued pack–but to give back to the wider community but helping find homes and secure care for animals in need all over the East coast.
Right now, thanks to Lorelei’s tireless work, three Kune Kune pigs–two of whom were being bred repeatedly, only to have their babies taken away for meat time and time again–have been rescued and are heading to new homes to live out their days in peace. One, a tiny girl named Cardigan, especially caught my eye, not just because of Taylor Swift’s new song, but because of this fluffy face.
Funds are urgently needed to vet and spay these girls–and to keep everyone happy and healthy over at Ranger’s Refuge.
Lorelei and Ron have given their hearts and souls to countless animals, and now it’s time for us to give back to them. Fortunately, we can help hundreds of piggy snouts to enjoy rooting and snorting for years to come, simply by purchasing a mask from Pig Wow to cover our own snouts.
Me in my Pig Wow masks, with Peppercorn the pig
Each mask is handmade by Teresa Burton for only $10.00, with 100 percent of proceeds going to Ranger’s Refuge. You can choose from the lovable array of pig, dog, chicken, cat, and more designs below (plus, more available not pictured!) in either adult or kid sizing. To order, simply visit the Pig Wow Facebook page and comment on the post with your desired mask(s)–or head straight to PayPal and send $10.00 per mask to Teresa at datnky@aol.com, noting your address and desired mask(s) in the comment field.
Thank you for becoming part of the story of Ranger’s Refuge–and helping Ranger’s legacy live on for years to come.
The world as we know it is crumbling to our feet. We’re locked in our homes, we’ve lost employment, and loved ones are dying. We long for someone to wake us up and tell us that it’s all been a cruel joke. While I can’t make that happen, I can introduce you to someone who will make it all feel a little better, at least for a moment. Meet Toby the three-legged goat.
I first encountered Toby in the summer of 2015 at Richmond, Virginia’s famous Vegetarian Festival. I wandered between booths overflowing with “I Don’t Eat My Friends” t-shirts and So Delicious vegan ice cream bars, and then I saw him: At the center of a curious crowd of onlookers was a beagle-sized being with a bandaged front leg enjoying being coddled by his new caretakers.
I learned that earlier that same month, this baby goat had been taken in by Peaceful Fields Sanctuary in Winchester, Virginia, at just one week of age–and still nursing. He’d been born in Chesapeake, Virginia, and had suffered a severe leg injury–but had not been provided any medical treatment. The young goat had only ever known pain and was clinging to his life, in danger of being euthanized, before his rescue.
Fortunately, Toby was surrendered to PFS, where his new family began to work around the clock to stabilize him. He’d already received a partial leg amputation by the time I met him and had come to the fest so that he could be continuously watched and cared for–yet there he stood so tranquil and calm, looking just a bit goofy. He was, already, a cheerful ambassador for the sanctuary who had saved his life, seemingly unfazed by his trauma.
Peaceful Fields is one of hundreds of farmed animal sanctuaries that have sprung up around the country–and the world–in response to a growing need for refuge for the fortunate animals who escape the animal agriculture industry and can live in freedom to share their stories with the public, representing the millions of others of their kind, the ones who haven’t been so lucky.
On factory farms, cows, chickens, turkeys, and goats like Toby often spend their lives in cramped, filthy conditions before their untimely slaughter. Perhaps most devastatingly, in the dairy industry, young calves and goats are separated from their mothers within hours of birth so that the milk can be spared for humans instead of being consumed by the young animals who need it.
Toby might be the famous face of PFS because of his annual appearances at Richmond VegFest, but he’s just one of the dozens of animals who have found their permanent home there. Located in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, PFS provides safe harbor to more than a handful of gregarious goats, as well as chickens, turkeys, two sheep, a pig, a cow, a donkey, and a horse named Elvis.
When you pay PFS a visit (post-coronavirus quarantine), you’ll be showered with cuddles and head rubs from the loving goat Warren, and if you’re lucky, Elvis the horse might give you a kiss–a remarkable sign of his rehabilitation after being rescued from a severe abuse case in Montgomery County, Maryland, from which one of his friends was so neglected that he was unable to be nursed back to health. But at PFS, Elvis thrives–alongside his shy but sweet best friend Brownie the donkey, who’s also healthy and happy after being abandoned in a field.
Chickens will dart about your feet, begging for the banana in your pocket–which the turkeys will steal if you’re not paying attention. And as you admire the diverse melting pot of feathered beings around you–like a rainbow of crayons all nestled together, despite their differences–you’ll savor this rare paradise in a world that’s often so bleak.
But back to Toby. Shortly after his VegFest debut, he was transported to Virginia Tech, where the rest of his leg was removed and he was given a blood transfusion so that he could finally fully heal from his injury.
According to PFS, “So many people generously donated to cover his medical costs and now he scampers and plays as any kid!”
Despite being three-legged, Toby hasn’t slowed down. He’s tenacious, jubilant, and silly. And he’s a stark reminder of how, against all odds, when you’re literally losing limbs, it’s possible to persevere–and to thrive.
Now, nearly five years later, I found myself encountering Toby’s antics–as a fully healed adult–up close. I recently moved to Front Royal, Virginia, just a short drive from PFS, and began attending the sanctuary’s volunteer days and tours. Last month, during the last few days before the COVID-19 lockdown, I made my way up to Winchester for a final visit.
As I snapped my camera, Toby seemed to know exactly what was up. He immediately put on his model face, grinning and baring his teeth.
He just couldn’t stop.
And just when he seemed to be done, he poked out his little pink tongue–as though tasting the sweet air of freedom around him.
While the coronavirus pandemic rages on, to Toby and his friends, life proceeds as normal: green fields, tasty meals, yellow sunshine, and mountains of love. Put simply, Peaceful Fields is, well, exactly as its name describes: peaceful–a smooth sea in these turbulent times.
Yet in this new normal, sanctuaries like PFS are being hit hard. They depend on donations and exposure from events like tabling at festivals and open houses. Now, more than ever, your donations are needed to keep them afloat.
If Toby made you smile, please considering paying it forward. For those who are in a position to give, there’s an easy way to support Toby and his friends: through a sponsorship. And it’s the perfect gift for a loved one this spring, with no need to leave your house. Just make a quick donation, and your chosen animal’s story and photo will be sent to your friend or family member–who can even schedule a visit with their new friend once the quarantine has been lifted.
Click Toby’s card below to get started. And don’t forget to share a smile today.
Peppercorn the potbellied piglet, all 12 pounds of him, came into my life squealing one April afternoon about five years ago. He was skittish and jumpy, obstinate and forever hungry–and really, really tiny. It was love at first oink.
Pepper–then named Guinness (yes, after the beer)–was living with a family in a townhouse with two large boxers when I first met him. I had found a rehoming ad for him online and promptly responded. “Guinness” was a 3-month-old “teacup” pig who’d been purchased by this family from a breeder and was to grow to be just 35 pounds. But after being in his new home just a few weeks, he’d become frightened by all the new activity and the gigantic dogs and ran around screaming constantly. If the family couldn’t find another home for him, off to the shelter he would go.
That was how I first encountered him, darting across the hardwood floor of that townhouse and screaming. He was so small, he sounded like a hamster.
Peppercorn settled in quickly, peeing all over my house, burying himself in blankets, cautiously befriending my (much smaller) dogs, eating voraciously, and snuggling a lot. Yes, there was a lot for him to learn: The floor isn’t a toilet; even small dogs and pigs don’t always mix (more on that later); not everything is food. But he was home.
I’d adopted Pepper in the midst of grief over losing my best friend, a neglected, ailing pig named Poppyseed, who’d only ever known love for the short few months he was with me after being confined in a barren, freezing hunting dog run for much of his young life. I ached to give my love to another, to save a life after failing to save Poppy’s.
In hindsight, I now know that the mourning period isn’t the best time for big life decisions. That, I was about to learn in very big ways.
And as the months wore on, and Pepper grew–and grew some more–I would learn for the first time what life is really like with a healthy, full-grown potbellied pig.
My first lesson was in size. From the time I adopted Pepper’s older brother Poppyseed, I knew that “teacup” pigs were a marketing ploy used by breeders to fuel sales of regular potbellied or “mini” pigs, and that no healthy adult pig should weigh under 50 pounds. (And, more often than not, these pigs reach upwards of 100 or 200 pounds.) Those who do stay petite only do so after breeders tell excited new guardians not to “overfeed” their new bundles of joy–or, more specifically, to feed them only 1/3 cup of food per day perpetually (for comparison, Pepper, now an adult, eats 2 cups of pellets every day, plus liberal fruits and veggies).
Unaware new pig parents happily oblige, resulting in frail, malnourished porcines who stand with their back legs curled under their bodies and whose lives are often tragically cut short–just like Beacon, the two-year-old pig who was the size of a milk jug after being raised in an aquarium and, despite being rescued, ultimately passed away.
So I knew when Pepper first walked in the door that his 12 pounds were fleeting. And, in fact, he’s now about 100 pounds, making it nearly impossible for me to move him on my own. Just last fall, when I was moving to a new home and had finished loading up the U-Haul, it was time to load Pepper into the passenger seat.
Now might be the right time to tell you that pigs scream bloody murder when their hooves leave the ground. I believe they think they are truly being murdered. It was cute when Pepper was a 12-pounder, but now I worry every time if I’m going to be reported to the police by my neighbors for torture.
So after attempting to guide him up a stepladder with his favorite treat, peanut butter, failed, resulting in him flailing about at the end of his leash wailing in my front yard, I mustered all my strength, lifted with all my might, and scooted him up the side of the truck, wedged between my body and the door frame–blood-curdling screams emanating from him all the while. After what felt like forever, he was in, and I was left with a baseball-sized bruise on my shoulder.
But, of course, I still love him and his goofy smile.
Because Poppy had passed away at about 8 months of age, I had never truly known an adult, or even teenager, pig. They call pigs’ adolescence the “terrible twos.” And that was my second lesson.
As Pepper reached this period, neutering was a given. I’d seen it in Poppy just before he passed, so I knew: Soon, he’d start mounting everything in sight–his toys, the dogs, our legs; it didn’t matter. Plus, unneutered male pigs give off a horrendous odor that makes them unsuitable house inhabitants.
But, despite his neutering, as he grew, so did his aggressive distaste for our dogs. I’d read that pigs and dogs can never be left alone together because even the most predictable, submissive dogs can snap. I thought my family’s Chihuahua and Pekingese would be the exception. But, alas, Pepper wasn’t. He’d get in their faces and swipe his head at them until they’d growl and run away. Then he’d chase after them. He was miserable; they were miserable.
Luckily, everyone was small. Luckily, I learned my lesson before there was any damage. But I’ve seen the photos, handfuls of them, of pigs missing ears from dogs who their guardians swore could never do such a thing.
The fact is that dogs are predators; pigs are prey. And I will never allow my pig to cohabitate with dogs again–for everyone’s safety. That means a carefully divided house, and enough attention to go around.
There was a brief period of about 11 months after Pepper’s adoption in which we lived in a rental home. Pepper’s room was in the kitchen, where he had easy access to come and go from the backyard. That’s something most pigs need–plenty of outdoors time. (And don’t try to grow a garden, even escalated a couple feet up on a pile of pallets. They will, just like Pepper, figure out how to get into it and eat all of your carrots and onions.)
As the little diva he is, though, Peppercorn adamantly refuses to stay outside when the temperature plunges below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. If you close him out there, he’ll just stand at the door and scream. Every time, I picture the cops rolling up asking about reports of a domestic disturbance. So I give in after about five minutes.
Locked inside all winter during his “terrible twos,” Pepper taught himself to open the fridge. And the first item he indulged in: A whole stick of margarine. The aftermath was brutal. As he slept peacefully in his pile of blankets, his intestines rebelled. And as he dreamed, his tail flitted to and fro. The mess on the blankets, floor, and wall took an hour to clean up.
Ultimately, Pepper’s boredom during the long winter months, despite my construction of a rock box for him to (loudly) dig for treats in, periodic voyages into the wintry weather with a jacket (that cost $70 and probably took about 70 minutes to put on each time), and lots of belly rubs, produced a wave of destruction in that home.
He ate pieces of the walls and floors, and he left dirt from rooting in the yard on all the cabinets. An hour before every meal, he’d start biting on the door frame–a habit he still has to this day, despite my attempts to discourage or ignore it. We had to move.
My ex and I bought a house together, mostly because of Pepper. There, we installed a pig door between the laundry room and the backyard, so his damage was confined to a smaller area of the house–but he didn’t fail to destroy the original Dutch door to that room or knock off the temperature knob on the water heater (a $400 repair) in the 1.5 years we lived there. Oh, and as I was preparing to move to my next home after my divorce, he decided to help me with the renovations for my tenants by tearing off large panels of drywall. I became quite handy at DIY repairs last fall.
So, here I am, in my new house–again, purchased, not rented, for Pepper’s sake. I chose to settle in Front Royal, Virginia, despite my lifelong yearning to be near the Washington, DC, metro area for its culture, diversity, and opportunities. But this small mountain town about 60 miles away was the closest and most affordable option for me, a newly divorced woman working for a nonprofit with a pig and dog in tow. Not to mention–Washington and most of its suburbs (along with hundreds of other metropolitan areas around the country) prohibit potbellied pigs, considering them swine and, thus, farm animals.
It took me almost a month to set up my home to house both my pig and my dog separately and comfortably. I built a mini wall out of some fencing and bricks to divide the house in two, and I had to specially order a $600 large dog door to fit the French doors that lead to my backyard. Oh, and I can’t forget the $6,000 I spent to fence in the yard itself.
Now, the five-year-old Pepper lives in my living room, where I work much of the day and can easily spend time cuddling him on the couch. He’s already covered much of the dark green carpet with Virginia’s rusty red clay and will sometimes resort to biting on the flooring when he’s bored.
Probably the most difficult part of the transition has been his temper. Because he’s claimed the living room as his, when he was stuck indoors for weeks on end through the cold winter, he became (as did I) stir-crazy. He got into the habit of swiping his head at me as I’d pass between his area and the rest of the house–and Pepper has tusks that are sharp enough to break skin. Sometimes, he’s left my legs with scratches.
But I don’t blame him. This is how pigs communicate with one another, and after they’ve pushed each other around a little bit and gotten what they wanted, they resume normal behavior as if nothing happened. He head-swipes me to warn me that I’m bothering him, and this is just part of his language.
It’s my job, then, to tell him that it’s not an acceptable part of our household language. And to do that, I have to push back. I’ve mastered the art of “move the pig”–a technique in which a large, flat board is used as a blockade by a person who moves firmly and unflinchingly into the pig’s space to tell–not ask–him to move. It takes perseverance, and it takes courage.
The biggest lesson, after all of it, that I’ve learned is that pigs aren’t dogs. They can’t be treated like them. To be a pig parent, you have to learn what it means to be a pig.
I am sharing all of this not to discourage, but to illuminate. Pigs are insanely smart, curious, and passionate animals–and all of those qualities, I believe, make them one of the most misunderstood animals. While they can outsmart chimps in video games, this complexity, aptitude, and determination leave them bored–and hence, destructive–in many homes. I’ve spent weeks and months learning how to provide an enriched life for my pig, and there’s still work to do. But, for now, he has a safe, warm bed (comprising a dog bed, three blankets, and a mashed-up bean bag chair he claimed) and a half acre to roam.
I dreamed of rescuing a pig my entire life–but if someone had told me that that desire would lead me to buying not one, but two, homes by age 31; racking up several thousands in debt for home renovations; and spending half of my twenties living a structured, regimented life around my pig’s needs, well, I might have thought longer and harder.
Would I still have a pig? Probably. Because despite all his obstinate behavior and mountain of bills, he adores flopping over and grunting for belly rubs, he’ll always come running with eager oinks when his name is called, and he never fails to find me at the end of the day for snuggles.
And because, with thousands of pigs reaching shelters every year and filling sanctuaries to the brim because of their aforementioned personalities or their unexpected growth spurts, they need us–those who are willing to adapt our lives and provide a forever home–to help curb this crisis.
With me, Pepper will always be home. And I hope that others who see the beauty behind these big babies will follow me in adopting a pig in need. But only after much research and peparation, of course. Your life will never be the same.
What do you get for an animal lover who already has everything she needs? A rooster sponsorship, clearly.
That’s what went through my mind during this past holiday season when I stopped by a pop-up for Grateful Meadows, a Virginia-based animal sanctuary and cozy B&B run by my friends Tori and Jonathan, and saw this face peering up at me from one of their holiday cards on the table.
This stunning redhead, named Lucia (“Loo-sha”), comes from a not-so-extraordinary background. Like thousands of birds who are unlucky enough to be born as males in the backyard chicken movement, he wasn’t considered particularly useful. So, like many others, Lucia was dumped and abandoned.
In the larger, industrial egg industry, male birds don’t have it any easier. Because only females are needed to lay eggs, newborn male chicks are killed just because of their sex. In the US, it’s estimated that about 260 million male chicks are suffocated, gassed, or macerated (picture: a giant blender for baby birds) to death each year.
Worldwide, this number surpasses six billion chicks every single year.
And then there’s cockfighting, a blood sport that’s illegal yet still prevalent across the US. For this gruesome game, breeding, training, and even steroids are used to amplify roosters’ natural fighting instincts. Before a fight, breeders will cut off a rooster’s combs to prevent tearing during the fight and pluck out most of his feathers. The birds are also outfitted with sharp spikes on their feet, exacerbating injuries.
These bloody matches often end in death.
But, fortunately, Lucia’s path took a different turn. Enter Grateful Meadows into Lucia’s life a little over a year ago. And just as much as they’ve changed his world and gifted him with a permanent loving home, he’s changed theirs.
Says Tori, “We’ve learned that chickens can purr like kittens when being pet. We’ve learned chickens make a distinct excited sound when they find something tasty.”
Lucia’s favorite sound? The cock-a-doodle-doo, of course. But his family has picked up on dozens of other noises he makes to convey his feelings and desires.
Perhaps as expected, Lucia acts as the sanctuary’s security guard, on alert for any visitors. He loves to put on a tough show. “But underneath those beautiful feathers,” admits Tori, “he’s all about snuggles.”
Every day, Lucia proves to everyone who meets him that roosters, often seen as aggressive and obnoxious, are actually loving, generous spirits.
Roosters are fiercely protective of their families and even do a dance known as “tidbitting” to alert other chickens to food. (Maybe we’d all do well to look to Lucia for a lesson on sharing.)
Speaking of food, Lucia’s faves? “Watermelon from the garden, grapes picked off the vine, and on occasion [he’ll] indulge in a very berry smoothie,” according to the Grateful Meadows website.
Ultimately, the biggest lesson we can learn from Lucia is perhaps one of the most important and challenging of our lives: Question stereotypes, and dig deep beneath the surface.
Hopefully, with feathered cuddlebugs like Lucia taking the internet by storm, roosters’ bad rep will soon fly the coop.
Now at Grateful Meadows, Lucia shares the roost with a motley crew of other rescued animals: a hungry potbellied pig named Winnie, who eats everything; comedic donkey brothers Archer and Marley; a loyal dog named Baelyn; and others. Birds of a feather don’t always flock together, it seems, as this hodgepodge of species has come together into one big, happy family.
It is there, tucked between sprawling country fields, that these lucky rescues have found their nesting place. It is where, put simply, “the warm welcoming embrace of a retreat center” meets “the safety, peace, and compassion of a sanctuary for the animal residents.”
Lucia stole my heart from the moment I saw his photo on the table that winter day, and now he’s stolen yet another in the friend I gifted with his sponsorship.
To help spread the wingspan of Grateful Meadows’ work for animals, you can join me in sponsoring Lucia, Archer, Marley, or any of the other residents: Just visit this website.
Update: As of 5:00 pm on September 19, the numbers have risen to 3.4 million birds and 5,500 pigs killed in Florence’s aftermath. And media is now widely reporting on these casualties. Our story remains below as originally printed to provide a tiny glimpse into the lives of the beings behind these staggering figures.
Unrelenting rainfall. Historic flooding. Catastrophic destruction. The East Coast of the United States erupted in panic last week as Hurricane Florence loomed offshore. Evacuations were issued. Millions fled their homes–for their very lives.
But so many millions more never had the chance to leave. Unseen and unheard, they remained behind the walls of their prisons.
As the storm loomed, some environmental groups began to speculate about another dire consequence of the massive flooding: the overflow of giant lagoons filled with thousands of tons of toxic pig manure. In North Carolina alone, over 10 billion pounds of liquid manure are created each year by the animal agriculture industry. Much of that sludge sits in enormous pits–until the dreaded day that floodwaters send it spilling over into our environment.
And shortly after the storm hit, that’s exactly what happened to more than a dozen of these waste-filled lakes.
But still, we weren’t talking about them, the ones left behind. Perhaps because we couldn’t see them, languishing in darkness, as their own excrement seeped out before our eyes into our world.
Then, finally, the flood gates opened to their plight: Over 1.7 million chickens had drowned at more than 60 farms, reported major poultry producer Sanderson Farms this week. And at another 30 farms, flood waters were still preventing the delivery of food–which could potentially lead to thousands more deaths due to starvation.
North Carolina’s pig industry still has yet to release any numbers on mortality.
But those pigs, and the millions of birds who lost their lives in this storm, won’t be included in any official Florence death tolls. Their lives will only be measured in dollars lost, and their individual stories will never be told.
We can imagine, though, what life was like for them before the storm. They were trapped as babies in massive, dark, empty sheds, with only each other for comfort. And then they began to grow–rapidly–to an enormous size. Over the course of just 45 days, they would have become slaughter weight.
At only about 6 weeks of age, they would have been big enough to die.
But before then, they would have started to suffer from lung stress, heart stress, and difficulty walking. Many would be crippled under the weight of their own morbidly obese bodies–genetically manipulated to grow so large, so quickly so that poultry giants can turn a profit of quick, cheap meat.
But if you or I grew at that rate, we’d weigh 660 pounds by only two months of age.
And they would have developed painful burns on their chests, produced by the accumulated ammonia from their own waste, upon which they spent every moment, day in and day out.
That is the life of a factory farmed bird. Of the billions who die for our plates each year in the US alone.
The 1.7 million who died this past week were only babies. But had Florence’s destructive rampage not reached them, they still never would have matured into adults. The only difference is that instead of being splayed open on a Styrofoam tray, their bodies are now rotting in rainwater.
Had they been born into a different world, a different life, their stories would have been filled with curiosity, adventure, exploration, and family. Inside the egg, they’d have learned to communicate with their mom through peeps, letting her know if they felt too cold or too hot. And they’d learn to recognize her voice before they’re even born.
Once they hatch, chicks have a basic understanding of numbers. At five days of age, they grasp basic arithmetic. And they can use deductive reasoning–something human kids don’t even achieve until age seven.
Mother chickens nurture and guide their young, and the birds quickly learn to recognize more than 100 different faces of other birds. Within their flocks, they form deep bonds and develop highly structured pecking orders.
And we mustn’t forget their wit: Some male birds have learned that they can attract females through deception–by performing a food dance for attention, even if no food is available. To the females’ credit, many catch on and will ignore males who attempt to use this tactic too often.
And, like us, these birds are empathetic. Researchers have found that hens’ hearts begin to race when air is puffed on their chicks, something they know to be unpleasant.
We now have a whole new understanding of a “bird brain”: a deeply curious, cunning, and caring individual.
On factory farms, unfortunately, these birds never know their mothers, who themselves are locked away on “breeder” farms, their bodies used as reproductive machines until they can churn out no more eggs.
But at least, as the flood waters rose around them, those birds had each other.
September is National Chicken Month–a time when the poultry industry bands together in a desperate attempt to inflate sales after the end of grilling season. But the best way we can celebrate this month is for the birds themselves, by keeping them off our plates.
You can help shine a light on the dark plight of billions of birds every year by pre-ordering a copy of Dellie’s Run, a powerful new novel sharing the story of one girl chasing the elusive home run in the name of freedom—not just for her, but for the thousands she left behind. Along the way, she comes face to face with who she really is and why, according to the laws of physics, she’s basically destined to strike out. As Dellie sets off to defy these odds along with the companionship and scientific ingenuity of a curious young boy named Austin, she might just change the game for her kind—and for all of us on the Outside. Support this important new project today!
Meet Beacon. Hunched over, timid, and hardly bigger than a gallon of milk — you’d think he was just a piglet. But Beacon was two years old when he was rescued and given a chance to truly live.
He was born February 6, 2016. “That date is also the date I got married in 1996,” says his new mom, Anna Hoffman of Ohio, “which couldn’t be more of a sign that lady fate knew what she was doing bringing Beacon into my life on a date that represents dedicated, loyal, everlasting love.”
Prior to his adoption, Beacon lived in an aquarium.
Yes, a glass tank.
At just days old, he was sold to a man with good intentions but basically no knowledge on what raising a piglet would require. So when a vet told him to feed the piglet just 1/8 of a cup of food in the morning and 1/4 of a cup in the evening, that’s exactly what he did.
For two years, Beacon ate 3/8 cup of food daily and drank from a guinea pig water bottle hanging from the side of his tank.
For two years, he only knew those glass walls.
For two years, he was known as Bacon.
Anna knew that changing his name would only cause more unnecessary stress and confusion. So, she settled on a name that was quite similar phonetically, yet so deeply different at its core: Beacon, which “seemed fitting because [she] truly believe[s] he is and will continue to be a Beacon of hope and light for all unwanted, neglected fur babies out there.”
Of course, as he settled into his new home, there were many uncertainties: his fragile health, his timid personality, his future. But his new family was determined, patient, and kind. They slowly increased his feed; offered him a comfortable place to sleep; introduced him to grass and sunshine; and even provided him with a friend, their potbellied pig, Charlotte.
At two years old, Beacon should have weighed 50 pounds or more (because “teacup” pigs are not a real thing), but he was only 11 pounds — hardly 3 pounds more than a gallon of milk. His hooves were overgrown, his back was curved, and his sides were sunken in.
And such is the plight of thousands more like him, sold by breeders who say they will stay petite if you don’t “overfeed” them. But while these pigs might not weigh in at 50 or 100 pounds, it’s not because they’ve been bred to be the Chihuahuas of the porcine world.
They, quite simply, are starved. Their bellies shrivel in, and their bodies consume every ounce of body fat, desperate to stay alive. They are the faces of the “teacup” pig industry.
But, for the lucky Beacon, at 11 pounds and suddenly living a life of luxury, the only thing to do now was grow, and grow he did.
And while he grew, Beacon learned that he could snuggle. Graze. Gorge himself on apples.
He learned that he could be loved. And trust. And roll over for belly rubs.
He even learned that pools aren’t so scary.
And Beacon learned that bliss is just one butt scratch away.
Most importantly, he learned that no matter how bleak life gets, there is always hope. And now, via his Facebook page, he’s inspiring others every day with his determination, zest for life, and quirky personality to find some light in even the darkest of places — and to never let it go.
Follow Beacon on Facebook to keep up with his amazing journey as he grows, romps, oinks, and squeals with his forever family by his side.
(Photo credits: Beacon the Piggy of Light and Hope, Anna Hoffman)
His name is Scott David. But in 2015, when millions laid eyes on the footage he collected inside Quality Pork Processors (QPP), one of the fastest pig-killing facilities in the country, he was known to the public only as “Jay,” an anonymous undercover investigator for Compassion Over Killing (COK).
QPP is a pilot plant for the United States Department of Agriculture’s (USDA) proposed New Swine Slaughter Inspection System, which essentially allows plants to kill pigs as fast as they want and replaces government inspectors on the kill line with employees of plants themselves–who have a vested interest in keeping the line running as fast as possible in the name of profit.
If the USDA has its way, this program will be rolled out nationwide–and we only have until May 2 to stop that from happening.
Inside QPP, Scott had a name. But they–the pigs–didn’t. And the suffering he saw is haunting: Workers, rushing to keep up with the fast pace, often dragged, prodded, and hit the terrified animals. Many weren’t stunned properly–and Scott even saw pigs regain consciousness after having their throats cut open. Yet they still moved down the slaughter line–without it ever stopping.
QPP’s Animal Welfare Supervisor even acknowledged that these pigs sometimes regained consciousness after stunning: “You want to stick them as soon as possible, otherwise they have the risk of returning …. Sometimes they come back, like zombies.”
Not much seems to have changed at QPP since Scott’s investigation. According to 2017 USDA records, this same high-speed slaughter plant was found to repeatedly be forcing pigs to move faster than normal walking speeds. The records note that the plant had even received multiple warnings about this issue during weekly management meetings.
And late last year, a Clemens Food Group slaughterhouse in Coldwater, Michigan, was quietly granted a waiver by the USDA to become the newest plant operating under this program–without the opportunity for public comment. Industry publications projected that the plant could kill 1,500 pigs every hour, but government records reveal that not even two weeks after the plant increased its line speeds, it lost “process control” and had to slow down.
Opposition to the program has even come from within the USDA itself. According to a USDA inspector who worked inside one of these plants: “On numerous occasions, I witnessed [plant employees] fail to spot abscesses, lesions, fecal matter, and other defects that would render an animal unsafe or unwholesome.” The inspector further explained that without incentive, these plant workers “don’t actually want to shut off the line to deal with problems they spot on the job. … Obviously their employer will terminate them if they do it too many times.”
And a 2013 report by the USDA’s own Office of the Inspector General stated that these “plants may have a higher potential for food safety risks,” and concluded that the “program has shown no measurable improvement to the inspection process.
After watching Scott’s footage, the USDA’s Office of Investigation, Enforcement, and Audit concluded that “evidence collected illustrated that the establishment was not in compliance with the regulations,” and stated that if the agency’s inspectors had witnessed these actions, “they would have resulted in immediate regulatory action against the plant.”
The government’s own words reinforce the need for increased government oversight of slaughter plants instead of important duties being shifted to these plants’ employees.
In 2016, 60 members of Congress wrote to the USDA, stating that the agency “has not demonstrated that its hog slaughter pilot program actually reduces contamination, and therefore illness, rates. To the contrary, the available evidence suggests the [pilot program] will undermine food safety.”
Unfortunately, even workers are not immune to suffering in this high-speed hell. The congressional letter also highlighted a Human Rights Watch report that cited high line speeds as the greatest contributor to worker injuries in slaughter plants, already widely recognized as one of the most dangerous workplaces in America.
In a recent piece in The Guardian, Scott David appealed to the USDA: “Halting the expansion of the dangerous pilot program and bringing it to an immediate end is the only conscientious and compassionate choice for the USDA, a federal agency that has the opportunity, and the responsibility, to put animals, consumers, and workers above powerful pork industry interests.”
And this week, Scott visited the USDA in person to deliver the more than a quarter million signatures that his petition has collected against this program.
We only have one week left to stop this nationwide threat to millions of American consumers, pigs, and workers. But you can help drive home the message to the USDA that a slaughter rate of more than one pig every 5 seconds is simply dangerous and inhumane: Submit your comment by May 2!
This article was originally published by One Green Planet. (By Laura Lee Cascada)
We all know and love Esther the Wonder Pig, the “micro pig” who fell into the arms of Canadian couple Derek Walter and Steve Jenkins and then kept growing, and growing, and growing. At 650 pounds, today she fills Facebook, Instagram, and our hearts with photos of her wearing cupcake pajamas or barely fitting on the couch.
But perhaps Esther’s magic is most evidenced by her ability to spread compassion with every oink, a phenomenon her dads have termed the “Esther Effect.” And the Esther Effect is in full force over at the Facebook hub of her thousands of loyal soldiers: Esther’s Army. Kicked off in 2014 as a fundraiser for Happily Ever Esther, Steve and Derek’s haven for rescued farmed animals, Esther’s Army has evolved into an advocacy and rescue powerhouse, having helped stop pig wrestling events and find homes for hundreds of animals in need.
A Compassionate Army
This fall, Esther’s Army was faced with its biggest challenge yet, according to Monica Lynn, who spearheads the group. A couple in North Carolina had purchased 10 young pigs to raise them for food but quickly had a change of heart and could no longer envision their new porcine friends as bacon on a plate. That’s when they contacted Esther’s Army for help.
The troops answered the call, searching from coast to coast for the perfect home to keep these 10 bonded pigs together. But finding that home seemed impossible — especially because most of the pigs were Yorkshires, just like Esther herself (imagine: a combined 6,000 pounds of full-grown pigs). To top it off, the farmer and his wife were running out of funds, the pigs did not have proper shelter, and cold weather was on the horizon. If a home wasn’t found soon, according to Lynn, the pigs could have ended up on the chopping block.
Photo by Courtney Zawisa
Just in time, Esther’s Army’s pleas were finally heard by Lorelei and Ron Pulliam of Ranger’s Refuge, a sanctuary in Virginia for over 150 pigs. But Ranger’s Refuge — in the midst of its own fundraising efforts to move to a larger property — had reached capacity, filled with discarded former “teacup” pigs. Fortunately, the Pulliams had recently helped Debbi Torres of Moyock, North Carolina, establish her own budding sanctuary, Over the Rainbow. Torres had five empty, grassy acres and a barn, but to foster these 10 pigs until Ranger’s Refuge was ready, she would need the help of an army.
On October 5, a shockwave rippled through the ranks, as news broke internationally of an overturned pig truck at a slaughterhouse outside Toronto. Locals from the advocacy group Toronto Pig Save gathered in vigil, awaiting the fate of the survivors. On the scene were Esther’s dads Steve and Derek, who offered up their sanctuary to no avail. None of the pigs were spared.
In the midst of tragedy, Esther’s Army couldn’t give up hope for the pigs in North Carolina. So the army sprang into action once more, raising over $2,500 for the pigs’ care within 24 hours. Then, the next hurdle presented itself: transporting 10 pigs across the state to their new home. That task piqued the interest of one particular soldier, Wikolia “Vikki” Sgro-Konopka of Virginia Beach, who had been left feeling hopeless in the aftermath of the October 5th crash. Piecing together a transport team helped restore Vikki’s faith in Happily Ever Afters — erm, Esthers.
A New Home for the Pigs
On a cool fall evening, a small crowd gathered to welcome the pigs to their new home. As the gates to the trailer opened, we all finally set eyes on 10 wide-eyed pigs huddled together. This time, it took just a small army to encourage them to set foot on solid ground. “If they don’t want to do something, they’re not gonna do it, no matter what. It has to be their idea,” said Torres, chuckling, of the infamously stubborn beings.
But they made it off that trailer, and today, Bonnie, Clyde, Anita, Andrea, Krista Lynn, Rob, Derek, Jenny Bee, Tom, and Steve can be found chasing each other through the fields and exchanging curious glances with Spot, their 1,000-pound friendly neighbor.
The pigs’ journey isn’t quite over, as the Pulliams push forward with their urgent fundraiser to bring these — and the rest of their pigs — home forever. But for now, says Debbi Torres, “I just wanna love my pigs and see ’em all happy and munching on grass and rolling in the mud.”
And, thanks to Esther’s Army, the next Happily Ever Esther may be just around the corner.
When I met Patchouli at Farm Sanctuary’s Watkins Glen, New York shelter, home to over 500 rescued animals, in mid-2014, I was amazed that I managed to capture a photograph of him at all. As the jet-black rooster darted around visitors’ feet, our tour guide shared the beginnings of his story.
A shipment of chicks had been sent out to a customer by a hatchery but was found some time later in transit bearing the words “return to sender.”
About half the animals in the shipment, marked as containing 100 hens, had died. But Patchouli was among the living. It was thought that as a rooster, he might have just been thrown in as packing material.
Shortly after birth, I’ve read, chicks have the ability to outsmart human babies in “peek-a-boo” and apparently have a better grasp on physics than I can claim, preferring realistic drawing plans over impossible ones.
I have no doubt that Patchouli, in his unfathomable tiny yellow chick form, aced these and other developmental milestones. And in his striking adult form, he maneuvered over the landscape sharply, with purpose, as if announcing his majesty’s reign to foreign invaders. His story might have begun in a dark, cramped box, but he surely got his happily-ever-after in the rolling hills of Upstate New York.
Her eyes were what drew me in. Between two metal slats, they stared at me. She blinked once. I reached in and stroked her ear. Tears streamed down my face–but this story is hers, not mine.*
Her story is short. She was born, surrounded by metal bars and perhaps hundreds of other pigs. She grew up on a farm. Indoors, penned, where the sun never shone. It was loud. Feces littered the floor; screams echoed through the air. The details in the days, the months, have all been lost.
One moment is still crystal clear. Inside the truck stalled at the stoplight outside an Ontario slaughterhouse on that August day in 2014, hundreds of pigs were crammed. I, along with members of Toronto Pig Save holding vigil that day, rushed up to the side of the truck. Her eyes, pale brown, caught mine. In those seconds, I sought the details of her story through the manure coating her ears and the small wounds dotting her skin. And in those seconds, I became a part of that story. In the hours to follow, I became the only living being to remember any of it.
She had no name when she died that day. And her story ended with a hot dog on a plate.
*To read the rest of my own story, check out this article at The Ecologist, in which I discuss the vigil organized by Toronto Pig Save where I met this pig with no name and what I did next. And if you want to read the more recent, moving story of the woman–Anita Krajnc, founder of TPS–who is currently on trial for giving pigs inside these trucks some water, click here.
Subscribe to the Every Animal Project
Sign up for empowering animal stories delivered straight to your inbox!
