Dominick

 

Every Monday I drive to work.  I stop on the way to a grocery store that donates near expired produce 3 times a week to the sanctuary.  I load up sometimes 400 pounds of produce into my car—apples, bananas, greens, tomatoes, melons, squash, peppers—anything and everything.  When I get to work, I drive it out to Duncan’s barn.  Duncan was a 1200 pound pig who passed away almost 2 years ago.  He was about 12 at the time—quite elderly for a pig.  The barn carries his name as a tribute.  Everyone loved him, including my son, who met him when he was almost 2.  He would crawl into Duncan’s bed with him while he napped, press his face to Duncan’s snout and just jabber on about whatever he wanted Duncan to know.  In his wisdom, Duncan would snort, open his eyes, snort a bit more, sniff and snort some more, just taking it all in.  I miss him.

The boxes of produce are sorted into what can and cannot be eaten and placed in a tin-lined closet.  Every Monday, without fail, as I’m sorting the fruits and veggies, Dominick comes to the wall of the barn and patiently waits.  He grunts and snorts, to let me know he’s there.  I tell him hello and that I’m sure a treat will be ready for him soon.  Apples with a bruise can be trimmed and tossed to him.  Bananas that won’t last more than a day are some of his favorites.   Strawberries that are just past the peak of ripeness, who’s fragrance wafts into every corner of the barn are just the thing to tide him over until dinner. 

I toss a tomato over the side.  He eagerly nibbles it up.  Only one?  He seems to say.  No no, that just won’t do.  He hops up, placing his front hooves on the top of the wall.  He’s the smallest of the big pigs, but still probably about 800 pounds.  His shining eyes could be human, and he looks at me, eagerly awaiting another treat.  Raspberries.  They’re small and I can’t just hand them out.  Instead, he opens wide and waits for me to place them in his mouth.  It could be compared to the wide-open mouth of a lion—sharp tusks, long tongue, big teeth.  But Dominick is gentle and NEVER bites.  He grunts and shorts his appreciation, letting me rub his head and ears.

I might think that Dominick only likes me for treats.  But on those days when it’s NOT Monday and I have the chance to visit him, I go out into his pasture, call for him, and he comes running to greet me.  Happy to receive affection, gently nuzzling my knee or thigh—whatever is eye level.  He may flop down for a belly rub or just enjoy a conversation.  Whatever it may be, I don’t care.  I know he knows me.  And for that, I am grateful.


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