Peace Train: Wilbur's Big Day

As many readers of this blog know, I purchased a piglet from my neighbor back in February for the hefty price of $29.50 and carried him to my house in a large rice bag so he wouldn't remember the trail. Then I named him Wilbur.

Wilbur relaxing behind my house, three months old

Over the past seven months Wilbur consumed literally hundreds of pounds of pulverized corn feed and grew to be quite a large pig. Whenever we ran out of food he got us into trouble by wandering into my neighbors yard to dig up and eat his prized yucca, a nutrition-less yet omnipresent root vegetable. But overall, Wilbur was a good and entertaining pig.

Here's an example: Wilbur used to sleep beside my palm-thatch hut and snore all night, except, that is, for the few times each night he woke up to scratch his hind parts on my 12'x12' house. The first time he did this when a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer named Jake was sleeping over, the 2am shaking of the hut really spooked him. I had long ago learned to sleep through such noisy activities. So Jake was alone and afraid sleeping on my dirt floor without a mosquito net and exposed to all sorts of creepy-crawlies. I am surprised he didn't wake me up. In the morning he told me of his wretched night and I explained -between fits of laughter- that Wilbur is quite the passionate scratcher.

Some people thought it insensitive to raise a pig for slaughter. "You're going to kill it?!?" they asked incredulously. You can't get the meat without the slaughter, I told them. And as I'm not yet prepared to give up meat I figured I might as well embrace the whole carnivorous process that comes with being an omnivore.

Sadly, though, I did grow fond of Wilbur (it doesn't help he has a name). He used to oink at me as if he knew I was his owner. I rewarded him with soothing ear scratches, for which I received more oinking. A fair trade I would say. Friends also grew fond of my second favorite pet (after my dog, Osito, who loved to chase Wilbur around our yard to everyone's amusement). When my friend, Andrea, a PCV from Texas, found out I was raising him for slaughter she told me that I was worse then the witch from Hansel and Gretel -"she only fattened them up!"- and that if she were Wilbur she would definitely mess up my yucca.

I responded, politely of coarse, that a livestock-loving-tree-hugger-Texan is a contradiction in terms. To which she quipped, "I know. As much as I feel for Wilbur's plight, I'm too much a sucker for bacon to really have his back. Unless that back comes in the form of juicy ribs." My first convert!

The months passed. One day we pinned down Wilbur and my host-dad, Samuel, castrated the poor guy then poured alcohol on the wound. I was temporarily deaf for two days after that. Luckily we operated on a full moon because, as Samuel explained to me, if the moon is not full the pig will likely bleed to death. He was proven right: Wilbur lived!

For a few more months, that is. On September 4th -the day before my birthday- I killed Wilbur. Fellow PCV's Andrea, Jess, Jake, and Kelsi (my follow-up PCV, from Hawaii) all came to join me and my host family for the celebration. In her eagerness Andrea asked, just after Wilbur died and we were removing the hair from his skin, "Is it wrong that he looks delicious already?"

Yeah, a little bit. But she was right, just a little early. Nearly six hours after the slaughter all eighteen of us sat down to enjoy some much-deserved pulled-pork sandwiches. We decided it was a great opportunity to share some of our favorite American food with my host family. They loved it.

The following day my host-mom, Lela, made some of my favorite Panamanian food, arroz con puerco, for my birthday. The rest of the meat we ate throughout that week and shared with our neighbors. The intestines and bones we left for the dogs and vultures.

Wilbur was the first -and hopefully last- animal whose death came about as a direct result of celebrating my birth. It's not fair, I know. Especially because he gave me so many memories and laughs. So aside from immense amounts of food and the occasional scratch, the last gift I have for him is a public expression of gratitude: Thanks for making my 26th birthday oinkingly unique and unforgettably special, Wilbur. You are missed.