Author’s note: Nothing in this piece of writing is fictional. Every one of the horrors found in this story happens everyday. In fact, they are happening right now, as I write this. This is how we treat pigs. I felt, as both a vegetarian and a writer, it was my duty to write this story, with the intention of raising awareness for animal abuse. My information was gathered from a documentary titled Dominion, available for free on YouTube. If you still eat pigs, and feel good about that choice, I highly recommend you watch the documentary. Now, on with the story…
Your earliest memories reside at the farrowing crate, where you feed from your mother. This is really more of a cage, what with its metal bars. The farrowing crate is so small, your mother’s body just barely squeezes inside. Perfect to keep her in one place, while you and your many siblings feed from her.
In fact, because the farmer forced your mother to have such a large litter, seven of your thirty-nine brothers and sisters have been born dead. But a large litter is needed, to keep us humans fed. We do like our sausage and bacon, after all.
That is why your mother is forced to birth so many piglets; us humans need them to grow big and fat, so we can keep ourselves satisfied.
However, despite being born into what is, essentially, a prison—despite not seeing the light of day—despite your mother never being able to turn around—and despite so many of your brothers and sisters being born dead—these will be your happiest memories. That is for sure.
Your life starts to go downhill the moment you watch your sister’s head get stuck under your mother’s ass.
Don’t worry—this is normal. I mean, on top of the seven of your siblings that were born dead, another five of you will die. Two, of starvation; one, of dehydration; and one, of disease.
As for the fifth…
Your mother can’t see your sister—or is she just desensitized to this horrifying reality? This is her fourth litter in two years after all. She knows she couldn’t do anything to prevent this anyway, as she can’t move around in the farrowing crate.
So, you watch, horror-struck, as your mother crushes your sister’s head in with her fat ass. Pop! Your sister’s neck breaks, and just as soon as she was brought into the world, she is forced back out of it.
But I wouldn’t feel too badly for her. Honestly, she got the best hand. The least suffering, the quickest way out.
Oh. I said you have thirty-nine siblings. You actually have forty-two—or had. These other three siblings are the runts of your litter. The minute they were born, the farmer took them away and disposed of them. Don’t cry—it’s normal.
Before long, the farmer mutilates what remains of your litter; he either cuts your tails and teeth, or cuts pieces from your ears, or punches tags into your ears. So he can identify you, of course. You are a product after all; he has to keep track of his stock.
You squeal in excruciation as the farmer drags a saw through your tail, removing it entirely. No pain relief. These first memories of your life seem horrific now, but despite many of your siblings dying, and despite being mutilated, it really is the best of what life has to offer you.
The next month passes all-too-quickly for your mother, who is plagued with hopeless longing when you and what’s left of your siblings are robbed from her, and taken to the grower pens. There, you are in another dark, dank, lightless dungeon. Longing for your mother, you wade about in your own waste, as well as the waste of the other pigs.
It’s not just your siblings now, but all the pigs on the farm. Hardly enough room for the amount of stock the farmer has, you are all crowded and cramped together. There’s always an ass in your face and your ass is always in someone else’s face.
You often daydream about what it would be like to live on a ‘free range’ farm; you consider this to be some kind of utopia. But in reality, it’s not much different than where you are being raised for slaughter now.
The term ‘free range’ is really just a marketing gimmick, designed to trick humans into thinking they aren’t supporting the kind of treatment you receive. In actuality, even when they buy the more expensive ‘free range’ pork, they are supporting this.
A wide open field? A barn for just you and your siblings? Dream on.
But, despite the lack of space, a pig’s role in this world is to, within the next five months, get as fat as possible. More bacon! Or at least, that is why most pigs are brought into this world…
You however, because you can produce a larger litter than most of your peers, are specially chosen. You have now been dubbed a breeding pig, a special honour. You are taken to a private pen.
There is one boar who impregnates all of you breeding pigs. When it is your turn and the boar is brought into the pen, you can’t help but feel a rush of excitement. Your heart is pounding and your head is a bit dizzy. You do find this boar rather attractive after all, what with his fluffy black ears and his curly black tail, both still intact. (He must have been marked another way.) You can’t help but want to mate with him.
You’re ready. Life has been nothing but suffering, your only fond memories being of drinking the milk from your mother’s tits. But here and now, you are going to get to mate with the boar. This is an honour!
The boar steps towards you, as though about to fuck your brains—and that’s when one farmer holds him off you, while the other comes up from behind you. You feel a sharp pain in your vagina. What’s happening? It can’t be the boar fucking you, as he is being held off on the other side of the pen.
You turn your head, revealing the other farmer. He has inserted a catheter inside you—and easily enough too, as your vagina was very open, thanks to the boar arousing you. You don’t want it like this, so you pull away. But he kicks you, grabs you by the side and pulls you back, pushing the catheter deeper inside your vagina. Raping you.
You squeal like the pig you are, praying someone will come and save you. Could the boar save you? He’s squealing too, and struggling against the first farmer’s grip. Before he can get away, the first farmer drags the boar out of the pen. The boar’s squeals can still be heard after he’s taken, though they grow fainter and fainter.
The catheter is still inside you; and inside of it is the semen, collected by the farmers, from the boar. The second farmer injects the semen up inside you, impregnating you, artificially.
What? They couldn’t allow you two to have sex! It would bring you too much joy.
You are then taken to a sow stall. Both the lack of space and the metal bars remind you of your mother’s farrowing crate. When you think of your mother, you shudder, thinking of how she must have been raped in this manner, in order for you and your siblings to be born.
For the next sixteen weeks, all you know is the dark, as you are kept in solitary confinement. Because you don’t have the space to move around, your body develops sores from the hard ground beneath you. Your muscles grow so weak from the lack of exercise that you struggle to stand up. However, once a day, a farmer comes and smacks you, forcing you to stand.
Eventually, you give birth to your litter: forty-two lovely piglets, just like your mother. You ‘wee-wee-wee’ in heartbreak as the three runts are taken from you and killed immediately. What’s worse is when you crush one of your own children. You envy your mother, who didn’t seem to notice when she crushed your sister—that, or she was simply desensitized enough to not be bothered.
Sad as you are to watch some of your piglets die of starvation, dehydration or disease, you privately note that, truthfully, these pigs had the best fate. The piglets still alive—you watch them get abused. Mutilated. Kicked. Even electrocuted. And in four short weeks, the thirty-four of your children that remain are robbed from you. No amount of oinking and squealing and “wee-wee-wee”-ing brings them back.
As though one time wasn’t enough, you are then forced to repeat this process—the rape, the pregnancy, the short time with your abused piglets—four times in two years. By the fourth time, you don’t take note of whether or not you crush your own children to death. You are numb; you’ve accepted this as how the world is.
Not that you would have a means of standing up for yourself anyway, as you don’t speak the human tongue.
Intuitively, you know you could live much longer, but after your two years of being a breeding pig, you are considered too old—as you are now infertile—and you are taken away to the slaughter house.
You could consider yourself lucky; you lived a much longer life than the vast majority of the pigs on the farm. Most beside you on the crowded truck to the slaughter house are only five months old.
But, really, you know it would have been luckiest if you had been born a runt. Or if you had the fate of your sister. Twisted as it is.
Once off the truck, you are zapped with some kind of strange electrical torture device. The slaughter-house worker uses it to guide you where he needs you to go: inside the slaughter house, down to the kill floor and into the gas chamber.
As you descend further into the gas chamber, you suffocate on the toxic fumes. Your skin and eyes and throat are burned—horrible chemical burns. You squeal in agony, but no one who would care can hear you. By the time those folk see you, you are just ‘pork’ to them—a product.
It’s a slow and painful way to end your miserable life. But in order to do this any quicker, more gas would have to be used—and that would simply be too costly.
Unfortunately, the gas doesn’t kill. It’s not supposed to kill you; it’s just supposed to render you unconscious. But it can’t even do this for you. Instead, it merely tortures you.
Even once you have moved all the way through the gas chamber and into the next room, you are still conscious as a slaughter house worker suspends you by your bound feet. That is, until the next worker in assembly slits your throat and you bleed out.