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Olivia, Some Pig

“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing…after all, what’s a life anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die…By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”
E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

I woke up before dawn this morning, nightmaring about Olivia. I dreamed that we had moved to a new house and had no pen for her, so she was spending her last day in our concrete basement.  She was like a prisoner, and I cried because she had no mud.  Her last day of life and she couldn’t do the thing she loved so much, to root and roll around in a muddy wallow.  She sat slumped in a corner. I had a huge basket full of colorful vegetables, Kohlrabi, big fat carrots, kale and squash.  All her favorites. I kept bringing her armloads, trying to make her happy.  She started snorting, then I heard someone call my name and woke up, relieved that it was just a dream.

A lot of people have said that I shouldn’t have named her. Naming her isn’t what makes this hard, and I don’t regret doing it at all.

I love Olivia. I love bacon. In my family, if you really love someone, you make them a pork roast for their birthday dinner. The words, “this would be awesome with some bacon in it…” are common around here.

Olivia at 12 weeks

Raising Olivia, I’ve learned that there is so much more to eating pork, than how tasty it is.  Being nice counts.

She’s been petted, patted, belly scratched and well fed.  She was able to live a life the way nature intended, going ears deep in a muddy bog, then napping in the bed she made of straw.

Knowing that Olivia spent the last year and a half being adored by, not only by me and John, but by hundreds of kids and parents, and even blog or Facebook followers , all of this counts.

As Joel Salatin would say, Olivia has lived a great life, and had one bad day. In my mind,  The good life outweighs today, the bad day.   I don’t have to be here when the ranch butcher comes. I could just let him in, pay him, and go get a  pedicure.

Olivia, yawning before a nap

But I won’t.

In order to bring this full circle, to follow my core values, I have to take part in the end of her life. It will, easily, be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I’ll spend the 45 minutes, or so, that it will take, giving silent thanks to Olivia for all the joy she brought to the farm, and the meat that will feed my family for the next year.  And I’ll try to not to cry, but will let myself, if I need to.

Enjoying an ear scratch, Spring 2012

It’s later in the day now. The butcher came out right on time. I won’t be giving a graphic description of the process because it seems disrespectful to Olivia and anyone reading this.  (If anyone is planning to raise a pig for harvest, and wants to discuss, email me) Suffice it to say, I wasn’t prepared. He worked so fast. The shot went off while I was mid thought. My eyes filled with tears and I made a (too) loud gasp. The first 10 minutes were really difficult and I was swearing that I’d never do this again.  All of the animals knew that something was going on. They just know.

I’ll be spending the rest of the day doing hard farm work (which always makes me feel better) and trying to keep the trust of the other animals, who are very suspicious, now.