Three Not-So-Little Pigs And Their Big Bad Mama

I had company in my cabin last night. A lovely young raven-haired lady named Cirilla. Cirilla the Cat.

Cirilla the Cat is a beauty. I feel kind of honored that she chose me. I’ve seen her up here, hanging around, many times over the years. Sometimes she’s been gracious enough to let me pet her. One year, she played with my son Sam, running up ahead of him on the path, then hiding, waiting for him to catch up, jumping out to surprise him. That same year she decided that my wife’s lap was the perfect place for a nap, toilet be damned.

My wife doesn’t much like cats. She’s allergic.

But I love them. And I love Cirilla.

It was bitterly cold last night, and though she had plenty of warm places to go (there are heated sections in The People Barn, with cat doors for access), she decided to hang out in my cabin. She followed me in as I ran in out of the cold from a trip to the bathroom. For a while, she let me pet her. She got bored with that before I did, gave me a couple of warning bites, then hopped over to the other bed and made herself comfortable in a pile of my clothes, slept there for a few hours before demanding I let her back out into the cold night.

Beautiful cat.

This morning, around 10:00, I did the rounds of the Sanctuary, got the guest tour. I was the only one on the tour (apparently the only one still staying in a cabin—it’s awfully, awfully dark and quiet out there right now). The tour guide and I trudged through the (melting, thank God) snow and visited some pigs, some goats, a few turkeys and chickens, a lot of cows.

I got to see Blitzen. Blitzen was here when I visited this summer. He’s grown. Then, he was a big calf. Beautiful, brown and white, with big, playful eyes. Playful everything. Blitzen was one of three young males who had recently moved in, and he was definitely the most energetic animal in the field. Blitzen liked to get everybody else going. He’d run up and head butt older cows, then dance around them, trying to get a reaction. He wasn’t violent. Just playful. Blitzen head butted me quite a few times. It didn’t hurt, but even as a calf, he was pretty enormous, and it’s a little odd to have something that size head butting you. But it was cool. Fun. This summer, one of his two buddies tried to eat my shorts. Got one leg of my shorts in his mouth from my knee all the way up to the hip.

Blitzen is a big boy now. Looks like he’s almost a grown up. He reminded me of one of those polite teenagers that still has a bit of a gleam in his eye, could be up to something at any minute, but is mostly happy to sit at the table and have an intelligent conversation with the adults. In that field, my guide pointed out another, older cow. A dairy cow that had been recently rescued. She told me that this new dairy cow had taken an instance liking to the three young males, the teenagers. She looked out for them, tried to take care of them, followed them around like a mom. Which I find sweet and sad. As an older dairy cow, she must have had several calves taken from her. People don’t get that, sometimes—they forget that milk is for babies, that cows make milk only after they give birth, and that people drink that milk only when the calf is taken away (usually to be killed and sold as veal). So it was sweet and sad to see this mama cow who had had her kids taken away again and again now sweetly devoted to these three teenagers, finally able to act on those instincts, that emotion.

Later, I got to hang out with a whole little gang of very, very young calves. They were gorgeous. Unbelievable. Only a month or two old, still being bottle fed. They’d been owned by a guy who decided he couldn’t afford to raise them anymore. He started shooting them, killing them one by one, when someone intervened and got him to give them to Farm Sanctuary. These babies are just amazing. When I got into their field, two immediately came to my and put their heads on my shoulder, practically tried to get into my lap to snuggle. The biggest, brownest puppy dog eyes, the softest fur. They had those not-quite-filled out faces that you see on tiny kittens, puppies, that sweet awkwardness. And, like I said, they’re still bottle feeding, so they tried to nurse on me. Nothing quite like two big bovine babies sucking on your jacket while gazing into your eyes. Made me almost want to cry. Very, very cool.

Then there was Violet. I didn’t pet Violet. Every time I come out here, people remind me not to pet Violet. They don’t need to tell me. I’m afraid of Violet.

Violet is a very big, very old, very cranky pig. She’s kind of the top pig in the barn. A curmudgeon. She wants to be left alone. If another pig bothers her, she gives them hell. If people bother her, she gives them hell. Violet doesn’t like anybody or anything as far as I can tell. Whenever I visit, she’s nestled in a big pile of hay, glaring out at the hateful world.

So I don’t bother Violet. I don’t need six or seven hundred pounds of biting porcine fury coming at me. I leave her alone.

I asked my guide why she’s so miserable.

I was told that she’s just old. Which I guess makes sense.

After visiting with a few other pigs (and getting a big, sloppy sweet pig kiss on the leg of my pants), I got to go take a look at the group that touches me maybe the most out of all of the animals here.

Forgive me, I can never remember their names.

In a separate pen, away from all the other pigs, are four pigs who keep to themselves. Visitors don’t go in, but you can hang out by the fence and three out of the four will come up and say hello.

The pigs are a family—three kids and a mama.

The mother had been a breeder pig. On a factory farm in another state, her “job” was to be constantly impregnated, then have her babies taken away so that they could be fattened up and slaughtered. She gave birth to countless children, but never raised them—after a brief time nursing them in a confinement system (where the babies and mothers can barely touch each other, supposedly for the “safety” of the piglets), they were whisked away, she was forced to become pregnant again, and on and on.

About four years ago, theMidwest farm she lived at—the whole region-- was flooded. She had recently given birth, and when the people who worked the farm abandoned it, she somehow managed to escape, taking her three piglets with her. She made a nest at the top of a levee or damn, and she took care of the babies for several days. Eventually, they were all rescued, and they ended up at Farm Sanctuary.

Since then, she has become Super Mama. Her babies aren’t babies anymore. They’re great big pigs, weighing in (I would guess) at 300 or 400 pounds. But they’re still her babies. She’s determined to keep them, to raise them, to be their mother. Visitors can’t go in this pen, because when humans come near her kids, she charges—no one is taking them away this time! She nurtures them, cares for them. When they are taken into another area for routine medical check-ups, she goes ballistic.

And the kids dote on the mother. When she recently had a cold, spent a lot of time in a nest just sort of resting and trying to shake it off, the kids took turns coming into check on her, came to nuzzle her, look at her, spend a little time next to her, keep her company.

There’s something incredibly sweet and inspiring about that. About that little family.

There’s personality there. In all the animals at Farm Sanctuary, really. In pissy, curmudgeony Violet. In playful Blitzen. In those two male turkeys who love everybody and everything but each other, and absolutely hate each other. And certainly in this mother who lost her babies over and over again and is never going to let that happen again, who is going to fight to keep and protect the family she has.

It’s beautiful, and every time that I come here, I feel lucky to witness it, to for a couple of days be a part of it, to know it.