The other pigs looked on in horror as the .22 performed its function.
Maybe they briefly wondered why one among them was singled out and led away from the pen. They certainly gazed on curiously while the pink pig struggled and was pinned so her legs could be bound by bits of old boat rope.
As the ropes’ ends were tied to the front prongs of a yellow CAT rig, we will never know what went through their piggish minds. But I doubt they suspected the horror of what would soon occur.
Without ear plugs (which someone briefly considered fetching), the men all held hands over their ears when it came time to dispatch the hog. Except for the man holding the gun, his ears trilled with a high-pitched ring when the barrel blew.
Straight shot right to the side of the skull.
The controlled explosion echoed off the nearby buildings. The sharp small shard of metal lodged itself deep in the pig’s brain. With a few last twitches of tail and leg, the beast lay prone as its backside oozed fetid waste.
From behind the fence, the pigs called out a collective chorus of squeals and shrieks. A fellow pigfriend was dead and their sensitive noses could already smell its blood, dripping slowly onto dry tundra grass.
I felt no pity for the carcass that would soon hang by hoofed legs (though I did feel bad for the living pigs’ loss and possible trauma incurred…but not really that bad).
For bacon was soon at hand.