Meet a 2-Year-Old Pig the Size of a Milk Jug. Where He Came from Will Shock You.

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)

This Slaughterhouse Kills a Pig Every 5 Seconds. Soon, Many More Could Follow Suit.

Photos courtesy of Compassion Over Killing

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!

 

Poppyseed: The 'Teacup' Toddler

Poppyseed: The “Teacup” Toddler

It was 7 p.m. on a Thursday night in late winter. Instead of catching the tail end of happy hour with friends after a long day of editing scientific manuscripts, I was hunched over the kitchen floor with a soiled rag in one hand while the other groped around inside a tiny mouth seeking the remnants of a rubber band. My wife coaxed the captor of the elastic to no avail. Screams were escalating, and they were murderous. I surrendered, collapsing into a splatter of diarrhea camouflaged against the stone floor.

I began to weep on my wife’s shoulder. I didn’t sign up for parenthood, I sobbed. I still had tropical paradises and European backpacking adventures to experience, a novel to write, a career to etch out. I sighed, forfeiting the next 18 years of my life in one grand exhale. In that moment, I nearly forgot that the source of the vehement wailing, indiscriminate pooping, and unrestrained mischief was no human child.

Rather, our little toddler was a Vietnamese potbellied pig. Well, minus the infamous potbelly. The bones of his 30-pound frame jutted out at odd angles, and his rear legs curled underneath his torso when he stood. His head drooped low, and he stumbled when he walked.

Poppyseed didn’t have a name when we first encountered him swaddled in a blanket in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. His eyes were barely open; his legs were useless. We transferred him to our backseat, and that’s when the uncontrollable defecating began.

The kind woman who had removed him from his frosty hell gave us the scoop. The eight-month-old had once been loved, living in a lush condo as a wee piglet, until he was exiled by the homeowner’s association. His next stop in life wasn’t quite so furnished. For three weeks, he resided in an empty hunting dog run through frigid February nights and two snowstorms. His hooves slid across the icy ground when he attempted to reach food or water. Almost a third of his body weight was shed.

We sought emergency veterinary treatment. Poppyseed’s body was covered in sores. Along with malnourishment, an infection was brewing. The numbers on the bloodwork were haywire. Worms ravaged his intestinal tract.

After a few days of treatment, we managed to stifle the bacteria. Days turned to weeks, and Poppy’s ears began to perk up; his eyes became brighter. Slowly, Poppyseed became part of our pack, our family. I began to hear imaginary snorts and grunts in public places, and the endearing pitter-patter of hooves echoed through my dreams. I watched him sleep, softly snoring, cocooned in a pile of blankets. The first time I saw Poppyseed race across our backyard with reckless abandon, I nearly burst into tears.

Poppyseed - The Every Animal Project

But the breakthrough wasn’t big enough. The pounds crept back into his belly at an agonizingly sluggish pace, and angry bouts of diarrhea arrived at random, converting our house into a temporary warzone. Lab results showed elevated liver enzymes. Medications were prescribed; supplements were administered. Some led to an onslaught of diarrhea, while others were spit up immediately, regardless of whether they were tucked into peanut butter or vanilla icing.

Eventually, we took the plunge and traveled three hours to a vet specializing in porcine acupuncture. As soon as his hooves hit the ground of the pen adjacent to the vet’s three enormous resident pigs, the fog lifted. Poppyseed raced the perimeter, hair standing on end, jaw chomping. Through his excitement, he didn’t even notice when the acupuncture needles went in. But as the electric current began to emit a low hum, Poppy sank to the ground, suddenly mellowed. If pigs could smile, there would have been a grin the size of Texas on his face.

Finally, the bloodwork began to level out, and Poppy’s spirits soared. One day, he met his new best friend: a vibrant yellow ball that always seemed to outpace his wriggling nose. He loved the chase. Soon, a romance developed. It was unstoppable. Poppy mounted that yellow ball with all his might until we were forced to pry it from his grasp. Then, he mounted us. It was time for him to get neutered.

The surgery went fine, but within two days, something was clearly wrong. Poppy was still in a daze, but the anesthetics should have been long gone from his system. He wasn’t eating, and his diarrhea returned with a vengeance. At 2 a.m., I called every vet I could find but turned up with no leads. My wife and I suffered through the night alongside our piglet, waking every half hour to the sound of urine splattering on the floor and Poppy tumbling over furniture in bouts of complete confusion.

In the morning, I rushed Poppy into our regular vet, who whisked him off for emergency treatment involving cold baths to get his fever down, antibiotics, and fluids. I sobbed watching Poppy screaming in terror as he was carried away from me. The vet collected information from the neutering surgeon on the anesthetics that had been used, frowning as he scribbled in a notepad. The cocktail of drugs had overwhelmed Poppy’s weak system. He’d have done it differently, he said, shaking his head. I wept and wiped my weary eyes. We’ll take care of your pig, the veterinary technician told me. Go get some rest. I obeyed.

Mid-afternoon, an optimistic call came through. Poppy was doing better, engaging in hide-and-seek with the staff. We could pick him up later. At 6 p.m., I arrived in high spirits. I paid the bill as the receptionist went to fetch our pig. She carried him out and placed him on the floor next to me. Immediately, Poppy toppled over. I dropped to my knees, stroking him.

A vet emerged from the back and began asking questions, poking and prodding, making observations. Poppy only groaned faintly. Perhaps in denial, I began to ask about his medications—what time, how many pills, with or without food? There was no response. In a blur, Poppy was carried away to the back again.

A short time later, I was invited into one of the patient rooms. I’m so sorry, said the vet softly as she walked into the room. I began to tell her it was OK, that I didn’t mind the wait. He had a seizure before we could do the X-ray, she said. He passed away. I’m so sorry.

I remember the tears falling and never stopping. My vocal chords seized so that all that could come out was unintelligible bellowing. They brought him to me, and I draped myself over his body. Some time passed, but I couldn’t leave. I squeezed him so tightly that a puff of air forced its way from his lips. I convinced myself in that moment that he was still alive.

My wife and I cried in a darkened room that evening, surrounded by our dogs whose eyes and ears drooped alongside our own. I had not asked to be a parent, but in some ways, I had become one, nurturing a skeleton into a grunting, nudging, burrowing, cuddling piglet who had completely depended on me to survive. I had rolled up my sleeves and cleaned up feces, fixed chewed-up baseboard, and did more loads of laundry that I can count. And somewhere along the way, I began to love so deeply a being who felt pain and loneliness, oozed with curiosity, and, at the end of the day, simply wanted to disappear into a black hole of cushions, just like me.

After Poppy’s death, with a hole in my heart, I yearned for someone to blame. I thought about the vet who had overwhelmed Poppy’s body with anesthetics. I thought about how I’d forced my pig into a surgery he wasn’t strong enough to survive. And then I thought about the mystery man who left Poppy in the snow to perish, the man who truly sealed Poppy’s fate. But all I know of that man are his last words to my pig: “It’ll be a miracle if you survive.”

In grieving, I learned that Poppyseed’s story is mirrored by thousands of neglected and abandoned potbellied pigs around the country every year. Breeders churn out “micro” and “teacup” pigs, promising the equivalent of little oinking puppies. Instead of loyal, carefree canines, the 100-pound adult pigs become independent, stubborn, and too smart for their own good.

Poppyseed taught me that pigs are essentially toddlers—forever. Pigs enjoy nothing more than spending hours tilling their guardians’ backyard, uprooting manicured lawns and flowerbeds. But confined to a small space indoors, under-stimulated and dissatisfied, many become reckless.  The house becomes their personal sandbox, and flooring, closet doors, and trashcan lids are just temporary obstacles.

So when overgrown, rebellious pigs become too much for their families, they’re given the boot. Sites like Craigslist abound with unwanted former “teacup” pigs, and sanctuaries overflow. Yet breeders don’t stop, profiting off fantasies of piglets posed in Easter baskets with daisies and tulips. When I see those photos, I remember the thousands of pigs who never get their happy ending. I remember Poppyseed.

Laura Lee Cascada is a writer, editor, and advocate based out of Virginia. 

A Pig with No Name - The Every Animal Project

She Had No Name

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.