My Work: To Market, To Market - Part 1

Autumn was the time to ship our first pigs to the slaughterhouse. But we didn’t have a stock trailer, so there were days of planning before and at least a day of relief after.

First, we had to prepare the truck. We knew the little 1 x 2-inch side racks we’d used to get them as 30-pound piglets would never stand up to the 400-pound bruisers they’d become. So we nailed 4 x 8-foot sheets of plywood to the inside of the truck box, with half-sheets for the front and rear. Then we built a ramp up into the truck with cross pieces for good footing and nailed up more plywood sheets on the sides of the ramp to form a long tunnel. In the pen, we lined up straw bales as best we could to form a narrow run to the ramp.

Conor stopped feeding and watering them the day before because we were hoping to entice them up the ramp with some kitchen scraps, water, and feed. But they weren’t the least bit interested. It took a little shoving and pushing before the first, Pork Chop, trotted up and into the truck. Charlotte took her station at the top of the ramp to make sure there were no porcine second-thoughts of escape, and we tried the next one, thinking that it would be a bit of a struggle, but not too bad.

We underestimated our pigs. Yelling, prodding with sticks, pleading, and swearing were useless on the remaining three. They would either stand still or go in exactly the wrong direction. Then the largest, Hammy, bolted for the barn door that was guarded by my wife Susan. He dove between her legs, picked her up and tossed her aside in a flash. She got mad and wanged him twice over the head with a shovel. We were at a standoff by this time, the pigs and the people, looking at each other and puffing in the same rhythm. We called for help.

Our neighbor, Ray, has experience with pigs and had advised us on the truck preparations. I jumped in the car to pick him up and his son came, too. By the time we got back to the farm, the pigs had escaped the barn and were out in their yard. We made soft flails out of binder twine so we wouldn’t bruise the meat and tickled them into the barn. Then we performed a yelling and prodding encore with no more effect than before. Finally, Ray grabbed the ears of the largest, Hammy, and flipped him over on his back. Then we dragged that squirming bag of squeals out of the pen and into the truck by his ears.

We rested a few minutes and hauled Peameal up the ramp the same way. Charlote was still in the truck, keeping them in there. While we were resting again, Conor guided Hickory out of the pen and up the ramp slick as could be using a small piece of plywood next to her head as a portable wall, a trick he saw at the fairgrounds. Hickory just about danced up the ramp while Ray and I watched enviously. We decided to let Conor do the whole job next year. Finally, we tied a tarp over the top of the truck and took off at fifty kilometres an hour for 40 kilometres, wind blowing the truck sideways and the pigs moving around inside. I never thought we would make it intact, but we did.

At the slaughterhouse, Susan and I dragged the first out by the ears while it squealed bloody murder, which would be about right soon enough. Then we turned in time to see the butcher calmly walking behind the other three as they strolled out of the truck and into the corral. It’s amazing how much better a little technique works than just brute force. As we left, Susan said, “Well, I guess we’re farmers now.”