Pigs, in there
A porcine lesson in non-attachment
Back at the beginning of March, Alex and I walked the nature trail circumscribing our small village with our friend who was visiting from out of town. The weather was brightly overcast and sufficiently cold to warrant gloves and a scarf, but not enough to keep the remains of last year’s growing season from decomposing where it lay, filling the air with the dank musk of spring’s approach. We had circumnavigated this loop many times since moving to Vermont at the end of 2021. But this was the first time we spotted the pigs.
We enter the trail a few blocks west of our home, where a chunky gravel rail trail cuts across the downtown asphalt before plunging back into the woods to the south. It continues across a wooden truss bridge spanning a major confluence of the Poultney River at one of its widest points. The water here is usually clear and often deep enough for swimming during the summer months. This time of year, it has the aquamarine hue of glacial melt water, even though the false spring had long since melted all the snow and ice in the valley. Just past the bridge is a grassy spur trail to the right that winds along the western bank of the river through floodplain forests, overgrown meadows, and a bit of farmland on its way to cross Granville Street, the main road back into town.
Most days, we follow the street over another bridge to the right, back to the original side of the river where the trail resumes, winding northeast along the outer edge of a field that once belonged to the now-shuttered Green Mountain College campus. (The new owner of the estate keeps horses in the field, but the trail remains open to the public.) This time, however, as we looked left to check for traffic before crossing, we spotted something moving in the closest corner of a fenced-in field attached to an old dairy farm.
A singular black pig peeked through the tall, dead grass, as it rooted around in a mud pit at the corner of the property. As we crossed the street and drew closer, snorts and grunts became audible as its black-seeming coat resolved into a brindled brick pattern. She became increasingly animated and vocal the closer we got, as if playing the part of a pig in a film. Upon arriving at the fence, a bright orange sphere rolled into view from where the pig had been rooting around. She immediately grasped it in her jaws, lifting her head towards the sky. I was worried that this pig was about to eat an errant tennis ball when the sphere suddenly burst inside her mouth. Spurts of brilliantly backlit golden juice and atomized citrus oils spewed forth like a solar storm erupting into space.
We were transfixed by the scent of Floridian sunshine filling our sinuses as we watched the juice dribble down the pig’s jowls onto the mud below. Where did this fruit come from? How long had it been hiding?
As if on cue, other pigs from all over the field began converging on our location in search of their own citric satisfaction. One pig became four, and then eight. They each took a turn batting their long eyelashes expectantly at us through the fence, pleading for oranges we didn’t have. It wasn’t long before they shifted focus to the mud in front of them. We had nothing to offer, but there could be anything in the mud—even an orange.
The pigs began dispersing towards their various corners of the field and we took this as a cue to continue on our walk. But we bookmarked this knowledge for a future date: There are pigs in there, and they love oranges.
A couple days later, we set off on another lunchtime walk with the goal of utilizing the knowledge acquired from our previous journey. We stopped at the supermarket where a bag of nine navel oranges was procured in exchange for $4.99 and continued on our mission.
We stopped along the way to check out the overgrown slate-tiled lawn labyrinth on the closed college’s grounds, but I was too distracted by my anticipation of the pigs to remember much about it. Ten minutes later, we arrived back at the farm. But there were no pigs in sight.
After scanning the far end of the paddock, we spotted one pig standing in the next field over, some 50 yards away. We tried hollering to no avail. The pig went right on rooting. I thought about whether the property owner might be alarmed if they caught a stranger throwing objects into their field and decided that, yes, they might well be. But I wanted to try anyway, on the assumption that the farmer would welcome the free feeding.
First attempt, well short and far to the right. The pig was unphased. I removed my wool-lined denim coat before trying again. Second attempt, better angle and good distance, but still insufficient. We get a glance up, but no movement. New plan.
A clap of the hands gets the pig’s attention.. More claps yields more pigs rising from their slumber. The first pig starts trotting in our direction. The others emerge from their pen and begin their journeys.
Upon their arrival at the fence, we dropped the seven remaining oranges within their grasp and awaited our entertainment. But it was not to be.
Rather than picking the oranges up and eating them with their heads held high, the pigs chomped the fruits right where they lay. There was no spraying of juice nor anything approaching a memorable visual. They might as well have been eating slop out of a trough. They finished as soon as they started and promptly went back to ignoring us. We left, disappointed.
At the time, I chalked this up to a minor setback and quickly forgot about the incident as I moved on with my day. However, closer reflection revealed a familiar pattern of attachment and craving. Before I had even processed what made the original experience meaningful, I was already planning how I would repeat it. One pig + one orange = joy. Many pigs + many oranges = ecstasy. It was so simple! Except it never is. No amount of preparation can account for every variable when other sentient beings are involved, and even if it could, merely achieving an expected outcome is a pretty mundane result.
In setting off on our original walk, the only goal was to spend time together while getting some fresh air. Because we remained aware and curious within our surroundings, we spotted the pig at a distance and were fortunate to share in its moment of unbridled joy.
Looking back, I can easily imagine that if I had been focused on getting my run done or my steps in, as usual, we would never have seen the pig. However, I could have never imagined a pig finding an orange in a Vermont farm field in the dead of winter without having seen it with my own eyes. And that didn’t happen because I’d planned it. It happened because I wasn’t planning anything at all.