I worked on a hog farm for a summer, so you can say I know some stuff about hogs.

For one, they produce a stink more toxic than a napalmed skunk. It shocks the nostrils and coats the whole mouth with an invisible paste. I’ve never heard of a child going blind from the stink, but I’d be surprised if it has never happened.

Another thing is that sows — the big, mean momma hogs — hate when you castrate their young. They literally want to chew the nape off your neck. Luckily, they’re penned up and can’t maul you. They sure try, though. They try with all their hoggish might. They snort and spit and tear with their pig teeth at the flimsy iron rods of their pens, all the while trying to laser you dead with their murderous, red eyes. 

This behavior does add a dash of thrill to the job. But, in general, I took no pleasure in this dirty work. I naturally felt sadistic, not to mention squeamish. Because I’m a male myself, the very thought of castration makes me want to triple up on undies and wear granite pants. I’m still not sure how I ever did the job without hyperventilating. I must have compartmentalized the trauma of the task in my mind somehow, maybe the same way soldiers sometimes do with their fears during battle. 

To the pig farmer’s defense, castrating pigs is a necessary evil. I know that much. Should the practice ever be banned, everyone’s bacon would taste tough and rubbery like deflated balloons. Testosterone simply ruins pig meat, much as how the word slacks ruins people’s concept of pants. Furthermore, if left alone, these male piglets would ultimately turn into boars – ugly, vicious animals that would first overrun the farm and, eventually, the world.       

For the record, I did none of the actual castrating myself. I have neither the stomach nor the surgical hands for it. Instead, my job was to pluck the piglets from their pen, one by one, away from their 300-lb, snorting-mean mommas, with the principal rule being — steer clear of the sow’s bite.  

Then, I’d pass the piglets to my friend Shawn, who’d promptly clamp each one of their heads between his knees and grip their legs like handlebars for Uncle Wes, who performed the surgery with a razor and his best Freudian accent:”Yah goin’ ta feelu slight presha.” The procedure itself lasted less than 10 seconds; the mental images, a lifetime.

Wes would then douse the newly initiated eunuch with Bactine. Then it was onto the next piglet. Naturally, the female piglets were spared the rite of castration. However, they did get their curly tails lopped off. Pig tails, I learned, in their natural curly state, are prone to infection.

When we weren’t castrating pigs, we were either shoveling their manure in the heat or chasing one that had escaped back into its pen. So I learned a lot from working on a hog farm; for example, I learned that I would never want to own a pig for a pet, not even Wilbur from Charolette’s Web.

Categories: Odd Jobs
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