For the first time since I began visiting the French farm in 1996, I didn’t have to rush back to London for the start of the school term, so I overlapped with the pigs.
I’d always known about — and benefited from, when I arrived in the summer — the homemade sausages, ham and pâté. This time, the two pigs arrived a couple of weeks before my departure, so I got the chance to feed them the kitchen scraps and the vegetable garden rejects.
I’d always known about — and benefited from, when I arrived in the summer — the homemade sausages, ham and pâté. This time, the two pigs arrived a couple of weeks before my departure, so I got the chance to feed them the kitchen scraps and the vegetable garden rejects.
On the first few feeding trips, I’d just walk up to the pen (a room-like enclosure with only the bottom half of the door in place, rather like a stable door) in silence. My raising the bucket to throw the contents over the half door would catch the pigs by surprise, and their violent shuddering and loud snorting would, in turn, catch me by surprise and make me jump (without the snorting).
I decided to train the pigs to get used to me before one of us had a heart attack.
About five metres from the pen, I’d start calling out, in a lilting musical voice (which I assumed would be soothing and friendly): “Hey, p-i-g-s. It’s m-e-e-e!” Sure enough, no startled violent shuddering and loud snorting. It worked every single time after that.
I was starting to feel very pleased with myself for having come up with the idea of training the pigs.
About five metres from the pen, I’d start calling out, in a lilting musical voice (which I assumed would be soothing and friendly): “Hey, p-i-g-s. It’s m-e-e-e!” Sure enough, no startled violent shuddering and loud snorting. It worked every single time after that.
I was starting to feel very pleased with myself for having come up with the idea of training the pigs.
Soon after, however, I discovered that I could’ve saved myself and the pigs all this fright by dropping off the food the right way.
In the back wall are two ground-level concrete troughs, half of which sticks into the pig enclosure with the other half sticking out of the pen into the adjoining barn. One just goes into the barn, stands on that side of the wall and drops the food into the troughs. The pigs will approach from their side and stick their snouts as far as they can reach into their respective troughs. All very civilised, if a bit noisy — pigs like to express their gratitude and pleasure by grunting as they feed.
In the back wall are two ground-level concrete troughs, half of which sticks into the pig enclosure with the other half sticking out of the pen into the adjoining barn. One just goes into the barn, stands on that side of the wall and drops the food into the troughs. The pigs will approach from their side and stick their snouts as far as they can reach into their respective troughs. All very civilised, if a bit noisy — pigs like to express their gratitude and pleasure by grunting as they feed.
No chucking the food all over the floor for the pigs to find.
No raising the bucket above shoulder level, which was probably what frightened the living daylights out of them in the first place.
The other thing about feeding the pigs my original, ignoramus way is that in its eagerness, one of the pigs would greet me by rearing up and putting its front trotters on the half stable door, with its huge head at a level that’s easily above mine, and grunt at me, which is all quite scary if you’re a five-foot-tall townie. Feeding them through the troughs eliminated this over-enthusiastic welcome.
And finally, I also often ended up tipping some of the contents over the pigs, so they'd be left with bits of vegetable and kitchen scraps trailing all over their backs and heads.
Poor pigs, having to put up with this pretend peasant! (See my other entry The pretend peasant.)
So who needed training after all? The pigs or the pig-feeder??
(France September/October 2011)
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