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It’s been over two decades but I can still imagine Manuel, my favorite farm boss, in his weathered straw hat tending to his lettuce fields and telling me that farm life is not for the faint of heart. He lost everything in the 2021 Dixie Fire, forty plus years meticulously building his soil gone in a few short hours.
And that’s exactly what I thinking about while gently holding a 30-hour-old piglet. Her legs went through intervals of rapid kicking and stiffening. Dozens of seizures gripped her tiny body, and when the convulsions finally ceased, I released a breath. I felt the slight shift as she slipped away. I kissed her tiny, perfect, glossy snout and didn’t let go until I was absolutely certain she was gone.
There was a time when my small farm generated income from egg sales. However, it’s evident that lately, I have transitioned to operating somewhere between a hobby farm and an animal rescue.
My common-law husband in 13 states long lost faith in my stories about how animals were “accidentally” coming home with me. But I swear this is a true story; last October, I came home after work to do my farm chores like usual when I spotted a couple of pigs. I had to do a double-take. But there they were, two wiry black pigs with ribs poking through their skin, using their snouts to push into my fence.
At that time, I had been hearing complaints about a ragtag gang of goats, sheep and pigs disrupting the neighborhood. The next morning, I found them sleeping on the fence line. I figured my visitors would find their way home, but when they didn’t, I attempted to find their owners. Neighbors told me about the neglect and abuse the pigs had escaped.
I figured the two cuties probably needed water. It quickly turned into an “if you give a mouse a cookie” scenario, and before I knew it, they were tucked away cozy in a barn-red dog house with everything a couple of pigs needed.
A couple of months ago, I noticed one of the pigs was getting bigger in the belly, like really big. As the anticipation began to build, I became hyper-focused. I developed an attachment to the idea that I would soon have a bunch of adorable piglets to help speed up my process of going broke feeding animals.
I kept a watchful eye on Mama Pig. At work, I frequently checked the pig pen camera, looking for any signs that she was going into labor. Any small physical or behavioral change had me convinced that piglets were on the way. I’m pretty sure I was starting to annoy my friends and family with all my chatter as I anxiously anticipated the arrival of piglets on the farm.
I’m not willing to share everything I Googled with you, but I dedicated myself to being prepared for the big day.
Since I was on high alert, it was no surprise when I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to my livestock guardian dogs acting strangely. My instincts urged me to leap out of my warm bed and into the cold night. Something didn’t feel right. I hurried to Mama’s house and noticed small furry bundles in the dark corner.
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I was filled with excitement—the time had finally come. I quickly woke up my kids. One went back to sleep immediately, while the other, still sleepy-eyed, did their best to offer support.
Were they warm enough? Were they nursing? Had the afterbirth been delivered yet? My concerns began to grow.
On my side, I had plenty of experience playing midwife to goats and sheep (do chickens and ducks count?) and even my own two homebirths. I basically knew just enough to know that anything could happen.
I suspected the two pigs Mama and Zorro were brother and sister. By dawn, I could see that one was still born and that several of the piglets had deformities. I texted two of my veterinarian friends. One said chances are if they have one birth defect, they have others. Another one gave me some wise advice and said don’t get too attached. But it was too late.
After two days of doing everything we could, it broke my heart more than I care to admit when the fourth piglet passed away. In retrospect, I realize how foolish I was to believe that I could will the little piglets to live. I had fallen victim to my fantasies and best intentions.
Over the weekend I had the endless entertainment of watching my two little survivors bouncing around the straw, nibbling on rocks and curiously coming towards me only to scurry away to their Mama. A sense of joy filled me and threatened to heal the loss of ones who didn’t make it.
As for Manuel, the last I heard he retired to the beaches of the California coast. I hope he still plays guitar and sings love songs to his wife. I wonder what he would think of my foolish heart.
