Jam sandwiches for a sick pig

We were sitting in a cafe in Sydney when the image of our pet pig came through on my phone. There she was—Mrs. D, one of our three pet kunekune pigs back home in New Zealand—with a jaw that was incredibly swollen on one side. Something wasn’t right.

CJ and I were on vacation to get a big city fix, and our friend who was housesitting had noticed Mrs. D’s jaw.

“Is this normal for her?” our friend texted.

“No,” I responded. “That is not normal.”

Even before we’d left for Australia, CJ and I had been a bit worried about Mrs. D. Usually she was our fattest pig­—bigger than her chubby brother Dougal, and certainly more voluptuous than her brawny boyfriend Kowhai. But lately she’d become lean and slender.

Mrs. D. has always been a character. She’s like an aloof supermodel who doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than $10,000. Whenever I bring the pigs dinner, she remains lounging in the sun even as Dougal and Kowhai jump up to greet me like enthusiastic puppies. She’ll open an eye and watch me, just to make sure that what I have to offer is worth her trouble. Only then does she get up. Whenever I give her a pat, she deigns to allow the interaction for just a moment before rolling her eyes and walking away.

She is also old. In fact, all of our pet pigs are old now. Mrs. D and Dougal are 12, and Kowhai is 13. Kunekune pigs live to about 12 to 15 years, so we don’t really know how much longer we’ll have them around.

After seeing the image of Mrs. D’s swollen jaw, I did what anyone would do. I sent a message to Naya, Veterinarian to the Animal Stars. (All the best supermodel pigs need a doctor who understands the special burden of being so glamorous.)

If you’ve read my olive-farming memoir, you’ll know that Naya and Jeremy are the pig-farming duo from Longbush Free Range Pork. They gave us these three pet kunekunes roughly seven years ago now, so they know our pigs well.

While CJ and I were still away, Naya moved into high gear. She paid Mrs. D a visit and confirmed that our poor glamour girl had a large, firm mass on her right lower jaw. It was most likely a tooth root abscess, but possibly a tumor. Naya got Mrs. D some painkillers and antibiotics right away. I convinced myself it was just a tooth abscess and the antibiotics would clear things up.

Back home

When we returned home to our olive grove at the edge of the world, I was shocked to see Mrs. D looking even more emaciated than ever. Her swollen jaw had been making it difficult for her to eat. Our neighbor Bob, a retired farmer who helps out with the pigs when we’re away, had been standing guard at feeding time to make sure Mrs. D got her share of food. But even so, she was withering.

I started making drug-infused jam sandwiches for her. I lined the sandwiches up in rows for the week. It felt like I was sending a kid off to summer camp. Everyone should have the experience of making jam sandwiches for a pet pig. Mrs. D loved those sandwiches and scoffed them down as quickly as her swollen jaw would allow.

It didn’t help. She became sicker than ever. Her entire jaw had started to point off to the left, misaligned by the firm mass that was growing on the right. I also found strange tumors on her belly.

Turn for the worse

On a bright Saturday morning, I found Mrs. D moping around the paddock so slowly, with her head held so low, that I was convinced it was over. When I patted her, she was oddly affectionate. She leaned into me and grunted with weary pleasure. She seemed to be seeking comfort. She was an old, skinny pig in pain.

A few days before, Naya had offered to put Mrs. D down if that’s what we chose. So on that bright Saturday morning, I sent a sad text to Naya. I told her that CJ and I would start digging a hole. Naya agreed to come the next day.

In my experience, the moment you decide to put down a pet pig, they spring back to life. That’s what happened years ago with our beloved Old Lady Lucy. As a result, when Naya and Jeremy showed up on Sunday afternoon I wasn’t entirely surprised to find Mrs. D acting lively, animated, and much more like her previous, slightly superior self.

“Maybe it’s too soon,” I said.

Naya offered to sedate Mrs. D just enough to inspect her jaw. It would be clear then if it was just a tooth abscess or something worse.

We got Mrs. D into the hayshed, and Naya sedated her. It was heartbreaking to see Mrs. D fighting off the drugs, trying to stand as her legs gave out underneath her, and squealing in frustration and confusion. Once Mrs. D was out, Naya reached into her mouth and began feeling around. Mrs. D’s tongue lolled out onto the ground. When Naya pulled out her hand, there was blood on it.

“Is that your blood or Mrs D’s?” CJ asked.

“Hers.”

Naya felt around some more. When she pulled her hand out the second time, there was a dark grey thing in her palm. It looked like a small, wet stone.

“Is that her tooth?” Jeremy asked.

“No,” Naya said. “Her jaw is breaking apart in my hand. It’s terribly fragile. It’s a tumor.”

We all fell silent then—four humans standing in a hayshed around a dear pet pig that we all loved. She had bone cancer.

Earlier Jeremy had told the story about how he and Naya had brought Mrs. D and Dougal home in a shoebox twelve years ago. Mrs. D got car sick and vomited green slime everywhere. They took her home and cleaned her up. She was a tiny, frightened little piglet back then.

She had a long, pampered life. Now, here she was, a very large old lady with cancer, lying sedated at our feet, and we had to tell her goodbye.

Naya pulled out another drug. She pulled out a needle and sucked up purple liquid into a syringe. She asked me to push on the base of Mrs. D’s ear, to make the vein protrude. I tried, but I couldn’t do it. I was too upset. CJ did it. Then Naya stuck the needle into the large, floppy ear. I rubbed Mrs. D’s belly, which was rising up and down slowly. Eventually the movement stopped.

Naya, Jeremy, and CJ used an old sheet as a sling to carry Mrs. D over to the large hole that CJ and I had dug that morning. It was under the walnut tree alongside the hayshed, next to where Old Lady Lucy was buried.

They lowered Mrs. D down into the earth. I climbed down into that deep hole beside her, and arranged her feet and ears so that she looked comfortable. The smell of her hairy body and the damp soil around me filled my head. I gave her one last pat and climbed out.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Naya said, throwing down a handful of dirt over Mrs. D’s body. The brown dirt mingled with Mrs. D’s white hair.

“I want to make her another jam sandwich before we bury her completely,” I said. “To send her off.”

After Naya and Jeremy left, I went into the kitchen. I pulled out the jar of boysenberry jam and the plain white bread I had bought just for Mrs. D, and I made her one last sandwich. I piled on the jam until it oozed out the edges. Mrs. D always liked lots of jam. 

CJ and I walked back out to the grave. I climbed into that hole a second time and carefully placed that gorgeous jam sandwich under her chin. Then, in total silence, CJ and I shoveled all the stony brown dirt back in, until she was gone. 

Have you had to bury a pet yourself? Tell me about it in the comments below.