Tomorrow, my theoretical wish to be a farmer finally runs up against the hard edges of reality. After seven months, I'm taking two of my first pigs to slaughter, and it will test my commitment in a way that nothing has before. I'm not broken up about the prospect, exactly, but I am filled with an odd mix of emotion: unease, guilt, worry, and even anticipation. I'm torn, trying to both put things out of my head and hold onto every nuanced feeling. Part of me wants to be a vegetarian, part of me is curious about the bacon; maybe, just maybe, that's the right balance.
I know the pigs have had a good life, better than most pigs certainly. I know I've eaten pork in the last week that came from hogs whose lives weren't a shade as long or comfortable. I know the pigs are out in the trailer tonight largely oblivious to what tomorrow holds. I know that if I cared too much about them I couldn't be farming, and if I didn't care at all, I shouldn't be.
After we loaded the pigs this evening, I went out and sat by the trailer and had a beer. The sun was just starting to set over across the brook, behind the trees. I'd look in at the two hogs from time to time, and they'd look back at me, their eyes at once clever and uncomprehending. They're big now, almost ten times the size they were when they first came to the farm. They've rooted and wallowed and slept in the sun and have never stood on concrete once in seven months. As far as I'm concerned , that's the trade. It's no the best trade in the world, but it's the fairest I can offer. On the balance, it just about equals out.
