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The Hog Killing
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
In mid October, my father summoned Mac LeCouteau, the village hog-killing expert. Mac knew how to puncture the jugular just right,
bleed and gut the animal.
Early on the morning of the killing, my father told me—ten years old at the time—that I would have to collect the blood while it came
out of the pig’s throat.
A food bucket tricked the swine out of the sty and into the open. At a suitable posture of the grunting mammal, Mac swung the blunt
end of an axe like a baseball player, and struck the swine in the forehead. The animal collapsed. I looked on while the men tied the legs
of the two-hundred-pound white beast.
Mac grabbed the hog’s snout and pulled it upward. His other hand washed the throat. From his belt sheath, he pulled a six-inch blade
knife. With gentle fingers, he felt for the pulsing throat jugular. When he found it, he thrust the sharp metal and punctured the skin.
I briefly closed my eyes.
“Boy, get ready with the skillet,” Mac said.
I squatted.
Mac pushed deeper, then a nudge and the point reached the main artery.
My father placed a pan next to me and said, “Use your fingers to stir the blood. We don’t want it to clot. When the skillet is full, empty
it here.”
In heartbeat rhythms, the dark scarlet liquid spurted out. My fingers swirled the warm blood.
The two men held the legs and kept the pig still.
After I emptied two skillets, the hog began to struggle, attempting to free itself. With knees and hands, my father and Mac kept the
swine on the ground.
The dying hog shrieked. Each breath sent warm vapor in the cool, still autumn air. Throughout the village, long shrills reverberated and
slowly diminished to low fading whines as the animal’s life evaporated.
While I carried the pan to the house, I looked at the crimson liquid. I wondered if I had as much blood in my body.
Then the two men and I lugged boiling water to the site, poured it in a tilted barrel stuck in the ground. Steam plumed. Mac grasped the
pig’s hind legs, my father the front ones, and I fisted tight the tail. We carried the dead weight and slung it headfirst in the barrel. With
rosin spread on the skin, we pushed and pulled the pink mass in and out. We repeated the process for the rear end. Using razor sharp
knives, my father and Mac shaved the animal smooth.
Mac pierced the skin just above the heels of the hind legs and inserted the tips of a wooden crossbar in the cuts. Then they hoisted the
hog on a branch of the large spruce tree, next to the sty. Limbs spread, the animal hung like a ghost. Mac slashed the animal’s
stomach. A final cut through the fat exposed the pig’s guts. His hand reached inside and pulled the belly parts out to dangle. Vapor
escaped from the warm intestines.
Except for a few minor parts, all meat of the pig ended as table food. The intestines encased boudin. The kidneys, heart and liver,
regarded as delicacies, accompanied homemade baked beans. Mincemeat ingredients emerged from boiling the hog’s head, collecting
the meat, fat and skin. On many occasions, hocks boiled dinners and tailbone soup satisfied our hungry family. Also, cured ham,
bacon, and salt pork served as meals during winter.
In addition to ocean fish, a homegrown hog had been a favorite food in the village for two-hundred years.
bleed and gut the animal.
Early on the morning of the killing, my father told me—ten years old at the time—that I would have to collect the blood while it came
out of the pig’s throat.
A food bucket tricked the swine out of the sty and into the open. At a suitable posture of the grunting mammal, Mac swung the blunt
end of an axe like a baseball player, and struck the swine in the forehead. The animal collapsed. I looked on while the men tied the legs
of the two-hundred-pound white beast.
Mac grabbed the hog’s snout and pulled it upward. His other hand washed the throat. From his belt sheath, he pulled a six-inch blade
knife. With gentle fingers, he felt for the pulsing throat jugular. When he found it, he thrust the sharp metal and punctured the skin.
I briefly closed my eyes.
“Boy, get ready with the skillet,” Mac said.
I squatted.
Mac pushed deeper, then a nudge and the point reached the main artery.
My father placed a pan next to me and said, “Use your fingers to stir the blood. We don’t want it to clot. When the skillet is full, empty
it here.”
In heartbeat rhythms, the dark scarlet liquid spurted out. My fingers swirled the warm blood.
The two men held the legs and kept the pig still.
After I emptied two skillets, the hog began to struggle, attempting to free itself. With knees and hands, my father and Mac kept the
swine on the ground.
The dying hog shrieked. Each breath sent warm vapor in the cool, still autumn air. Throughout the village, long shrills reverberated and
slowly diminished to low fading whines as the animal’s life evaporated.
While I carried the pan to the house, I looked at the crimson liquid. I wondered if I had as much blood in my body.
Then the two men and I lugged boiling water to the site, poured it in a tilted barrel stuck in the ground. Steam plumed. Mac grasped the
pig’s hind legs, my father the front ones, and I fisted tight the tail. We carried the dead weight and slung it headfirst in the barrel. With
rosin spread on the skin, we pushed and pulled the pink mass in and out. We repeated the process for the rear end. Using razor sharp
knives, my father and Mac shaved the animal smooth.
Mac pierced the skin just above the heels of the hind legs and inserted the tips of a wooden crossbar in the cuts. Then they hoisted the
hog on a branch of the large spruce tree, next to the sty. Limbs spread, the animal hung like a ghost. Mac slashed the animal’s
stomach. A final cut through the fat exposed the pig’s guts. His hand reached inside and pulled the belly parts out to dangle. Vapor
escaped from the warm intestines.
Except for a few minor parts, all meat of the pig ended as table food. The intestines encased boudin. The kidneys, heart and liver,
regarded as delicacies, accompanied homemade baked beans. Mincemeat ingredients emerged from boiling the hog’s head, collecting
the meat, fat and skin. On many occasions, hocks boiled dinners and tailbone soup satisfied our hungry family. Also, cured ham,
bacon, and salt pork served as meals during winter.
In addition to ocean fish, a homegrown hog had been a favorite food in the village for two-hundred years.
| ~ Other Shore ~ |