Pigs

I really dislike pigs. As a child, I never liked bacon. I picked the ham off of my hawaiian pizza. And even the smell of hotdogs made me ill. When everyone liked Wilber from Charlotte's Web, I liked Charlotte. However, I did go through a short phase when I liked bologne and mayonaise sandwiches, but I blame it on temporary insanity and peer pressure. I had problems fitting in already with my massive overbite, so there was no way I was going to be the only 3^rd grader in the cafeteria without a bologne sandwich. In fact, I am not even sure if bologne is ham.

So I don't like pigs, I never have. Also, I am a vegetarian, but I have never claimed to be an animal rights activist or felt the need to protest with PETA. But friends, tonight, in Cantón Santa Cruz, San Luis del Carmen, I became a believer. Sign me up PETA! Tonight I “witnessed” the castration of a full grown pig. I say use “quotations” because I have a very sensitive stomach, and as soon as I realized what was going on, I fled the scene. But I could not escape the blood curdling screams of Señor Wilber.

When I entered my front yard around 6pm, my host family was trying to lasso the pig, who has made occasional appearances for the last 4 months, since arrived in my site. He disappears for weeks at a time, and someday, I would like to know where he goes, but that is a topic for another day. I figured they were going to catch him to move him somewhere else. They told me they were going to eat him, but when they saw the dismay on my face, they told me they were kidding. I escaped to higher ground as the pig was squeeling and kicking up mud trying to escape what I'm sure he assumed was his future as sopa de patas. Little did he know, his fate was much worse. My host sister caught him by his hind legs, rendering the lasso useless. It was then that I saw it, glistening in the evening sun. The Gillette. I looked from the razor blade to my host mom and back to the razor. Confused, I said, “I thought you weren't going to kill it?” She laughed and told me they were going to cut off his huevos. I think the pig overheard, because the urgency of his squeels escalated. It took me about 30 more seconds to process the scene and realize that I had better get out of there unless I wanted those images circulating in my brain for a very long time.

As I climbed up the backyard, I heard the blood-curdling squeels. I knew that they were cutting off Wilburs manhood, and I couldn't bear the sound. I am both surprised, and embarassed to admit, I teared up a little bit. The emotion was highly unexpected. Afterall, I watch them kill the chickens, and while I feel like throwing up, I don't sympathize with the creatures. I really don't like pigs. But that was cruel and unusual punishment. No anestesia, no pain killers, but don't worry Wilber, atleast the blade was sanitary; fresh out of the package. I may not have the gory images running through my mind, but it will be hard to fall asleep tonight with the sound of desperate squeels on repeat.