Today I watched this five-month-old Berkshire piglet get shot, bled out, gutted and cleaned up. I'd never witnessed a pig slaughter before, and I'm still running over the events in my mind, especially her final moments, the last thrusts and twitches of her muddy, snorting and squealing existence. I watched her legs kick and kick in the wet muck as she died and remembered holding my dear dog Mali as we euthanized her, feeling my beloved pup's electric spirit evaporate as the vet's shot ran through her blood. There's a connection between the two that many don't recognize, and that I forget every time my serrated knife gnaws through a chop.
I will not eat this pig but someone is. And for them it's a moment of celebration. This pig is a bachelor party provision.
She was killed by chefs who wanted to ensure her death was quick and relatively painless. They scoured her flesh and sliced her belly and pulled out her intestines with respect. Big tough men who knew well enough to keep quiet during such business.
I came home feeling pensive, but the day's events didn't stop me from snacking on leftover pork terrine. Clearly I have issues. I felt guilty about her death at the time, but it turned out I wasn't as mortified as I though I would be. I easily slipped Jason Zygmont's country ham terrine past my tongue. Has the last vestige of vegetarianism within me gone?
I'll have to write this one out.