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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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