the first time i saw a pig killed the “old fashioned way,” which was not old at all, for it used a cage that did the work of three men by constraining the pig and it allowed a man to slaughter a pig on his own, my heart quailed and tears gathered in my eyes as i watched it grunt with increasing frequency as it was wheeled out of the pen and into the center of the concrete floor, grunts which turned to squeals which grew louder and louder as it was sharply hooked under the chin, head yanked out a hole at the front of its cage, feet slipping on the watered down wooden boards, and a long blade inserted in its throat.
another pig killing was happening somewhere down the road, and its screams were faintly echoed by those of another.
the orgasmic nature of blood letting was already familiar to me as i had experienced this killing quail. but different now with its large head still on, its eyes rolled back, and its quivering body not in my hands but pressed against the black metal of the cage. with each softening grunt, another spurt of blood gushed from its throat into an outstretched bucket, which was swilled around to keep from coagulating.
my host talked over its screams, telling me this and that, perhaps trying to lessen the intensity of the moment. to the best of my ability i blocked him out and focused on the dying creature, nodding politely.
a silent prayer as its spirit faded. with a final shudder, it fell against the ribs of its cage. in a perfunctory manner, the door was kicked open and the pig slipped out onto the concrete ground, slightly tilted towards a large drain.
for the first twenty minutes, and with surprising tenderness, hot water is poured all over its body, which twitched and quivered on contact. knives were taken out, its body scraped from head to toe, clearing its bristles.
then, it was heaved onto a rack and cut from head to toe. first, its tongue was removed through the opened throat. kept in a bucket for later. then the large intestines are pulled out and soaked. saved for later. out here they are the most expensive part of the pig. the heart, the lungs. the bladder, liver, kidneys. i can only assume. they take their places, some resembling dark flowers, others resembling pale balloons, some on the floor, some in buckets. a clot of coagulated blood drifts towards the drain. the slaughterer kicked it along.
the head chopped, weighed, put in a bucket. the body, halved, on two different tables. my host tells me the front part is the tastiest because it moves more.
the heart still beats, an hour after the killing, long after it’s been cleaved in half.
***
the second pig they kill “just for me.” the slaughterer is feeling tired, so his father, also a local pig slaughterer by trade, takes his place. he and his wife wrestle another pig into the cage. again, the wakened pigs squeal and huddle about. this pig is much more vocal than the last, and perhaps because they didn’t rewater the floorboards, it seemed as if the pig withheld its life to its last breath, lip snarled and foot pushing its body back away from the cage’s head opening until finally, it lost its strength. again, the cage door kicked open, the body slumped out. my host calls me away soon after the initial hot water pouring, which caused this pig to curve its body and raise its head. the pigs in the pen, now down to seven, are again cuddled up on the concrete, asleep.
***
the third pig whose death i witnessed was killed on the occasion of the passing of an old woman in a neighboring village. the pig lay quietly in its cage, with boards leaning up against all sides, so quietly i failed to notice it for quite some time, even though it was right in front of me. also white, but much fatter than the other two, with floppy ears. presumably a few more generations removed than the previous ones from its lean white foreign fathers.
it’s time. the slaughterer calls three other men to help, two of whom don coverups. one of them opens the door and pulls it out by the tail. the screaming begins, but its dainty trotters don’t gain a foothold on the floor. the three men drag the pig, who would surely be putting up more of a fight if a hook wasn’t in its mouth, slaughterer pulling on it without mercy or hesitation. it totters on her trotters squealing all the way, partially drowned out by the blaring music. the men heave her onto a low bench and cross its hind legs, holding them in place. it does not resist, its free leg does not thrash, it is only screaming. i am prepared, by now, for the deep throat cut with a single jab of a knife, and heightening of the scream, the bloodletting coordinated with final moans, and the swirling of the bucket. i am not prepared for the firecrackers that drown out the screams, nor am i prepared for the way the slaughterer roughly tosses the body in an arc over the bench and onto the floor on the other side, where it lands with a jiggle and gasps three more times, each time emitting a steamy cloud of warm air.
the men walk away dusting off trousers and dipping hands in a bucket of water to clean them, everything but their stoic faces emitting an aura of having done a dirty thing.
***
on my way home, i reflected on the bright red that adorned every chinese establishment across the world at this time of year, to bring good fortune. the bright red that is mirrored, for a moment, in freshly spilled blood. this time of year that was for most people their annual taste of meat.
and i thought about the difference between innocence and renewal. the tradition of cleansing the rages and disappointments of the past by covering doors trees and lights in red, setting fireworks and eating pigs to send off the old and usher in the new year, innocent as a newborn babe awash in blood.
hog maw 