The pig was supposed to drop with one bullet, but as Jess Piskor aimed the .22 down on the top of its skull it must have moved slightly, because when the shot rang out the animal squealed, turned, and ran off.
Berens and Piskor had raised this pig for the shop, and instead of herding it into a trailer and hauling it off to a slaughterhouse where the animal would be assured a quick death—but would have to endure hours of stressful travel and confinement—the pig was killed on the land where it spent its whole life.
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Levitt and the others have broken down plenty of pigs in their day, but they’d never seen one die and cleaned on the spot before. Piskor had participated in four farm slaughters—one for his own wedding feast—and he coached the group through the process.
After the slaughter it was time for lunch. Levitt seared off some short ribs and scrap muscle from the sides and made a stew thickened with the reserved blood. As we sat eating, we talked about the killing.
