r.i.p.

yesterday i walked out to pork chop hill and found oprah dead. lying in the shade, same place she’s been, with a bit of blood drying in the dirt by her nose. my heart sank.

if you go back to my post a few days ago, the one that reads, “my first birthing experience, and i have a feeling it’s off to a rough start,” you might be able to sense my foreboding outlook, despite any certainty or real proof of foul play. i was alone on pch that day, and tried to relay what i saw to farmer j. his experience with pigs, which is vast and successful, led him to believe the hog was just showing normal signs of recovery from birth during a heat index of over a hundred degrees. i put my fears aside, and felt better about the whole situation.

today, however, my fear, which thankfully my positive outlook has kept from turning into regret, is that if i had somehow relayed my ill feelings a little bit stronger we could have taken action and saved the hog. when i walked onto the scene, and observed the piglets scrambling for milk, it felt as though i had walked onto a crime scene, as opposed to a maternity ward. i could feel it, and i’m sure if farmer j was with me, instead of just hearing through me, we probably would have acted.

luckily, my reaction was strong enough to encourage the ivy’s to investigate for themselves, and they ultimately pulled two of the piglets away for bottle feeding. the third piglet (the only other one left alive) made it just one more half day under the experiment of allowing oprah to nurse him before he too passed out, unresponsive on the ground. all three piglets are now pulled to the safety of the ivy’s home, and all three have recovered nicely.

finding oprah dead, all of our questions/hunches/gut instincts made a lot more sense. the death was caused by some sort of infection from the birth. one likely scenario is a piglet, or a partially formed fetus, or even the placenta remained inside the mother, causing the infection.

just as i was alone when i first found the piglets struggling, i was also alone when i found oprah. unable to move or bury her on my own, she remained where she lay until this morning when several of us could bury her together. the scene was gruesome. the bloated corpse was already fodder for thousands of maggots, and the smell, which clung right to the back of your nose, was teetering on overwhelming. i won’t forget this morning.

am i upset? that’s the most common response, it seems, but if i’m upset, it’s not in mourning for oprah, it’s at our own small lapses. the time and energy required to provide daily attention to each of our sows, and our boar bosko, is exponentially greater than the attention required for our general population, and today proved that. this will be oprah’s legacy, because from henceforth pch will return to it’s roots and focus all of its energy on finishing, as opposed to reproducing. piglet’s will be raised by trusted partners, and once weaned off mother’s milk they will join the troops on pch. this is our expertise, and this will be our continued focus: finishing the highest quality pasture pork available.

the only chance we have at not wasting oprah’s life is to honor this legacy, and offer a better chance for her three remaining offspring. farmer j pointed out that much like my cow dr. richard kimble has taught us several lessons in fencing, perhaps oprah was here to teach us as well.

several times a week i think about the poem i’m about to share. it’s by the thirteenth century poet rumi, and ever since hearing it from my friend and teacher bernice, i have felt it’s meaning and power in countless circumstances. the last line says it all: oprah was our guide from beyond.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi