It’s a long, slow drive up the farm’s potholed driveway. Trees line both sides. We bump along for about a minute. The gravel and dirt grind under the tires.
The house at the end of the driveway is made of stone. From here, it doesn’t look huge. There’s a wooden, railed deck on one side. We park to the right of the house. There are no other vehicles in sight. Don’t his parents have a car? I can see a light coming from what Jake says is the kitchen. The rest of the house is dark.
There must be a woodstove inside, because the first thing I smell as soon as I step out of the car is smoke. This would have been a pretty place at one time, I imagine, but now it’s a bit run-down. They could use some fresh paint on the windowsills and trim. Much of the porch is rotting. The porch swing is ripped and rusted.
“I don’t want to go in yet,” says Jake. I’ve already taken a few steps toward the house. I stop and turn back. “All that sitting in the car. Let’s take a walk around first.”
“It’s a bit dark, isn’t it? We can’t really see much, can we?”
“At least to get some air, then,” he says. “The stars aren’t out tonight, but on a clear night in summer they’re unbelievable. Three times as bright as in the city. I used to love that. And the clouds. I remember coming out on humid afternoons and the clouds were so massive and soft-looking. I liked how gently they moved across the sky, how different they were from one another. It’s silly, I guess, just watching clouds. I wish we could see them now.”
“It’s not silly,” I say. “Not at all. It’s nice that you noticed those things. Most people wouldn’t.”
“I used to always notice stuff like that. The trees, too. I don’t think I do as much anymore. I don’t know when that changed. Anyway, you know that it’s damn cold when the snow crunches like this. This isn’t that wet snowball-making snow,” Jake says, walking ahead. I wish he wore gloves; his hands are all red. The interlocking stone path we take from the lane to the barn is uneven and crumbling. I appreciate the fresh air, but it’s frigid, not fresh or crisp. My legs are numb. I thought he’d want to go right inside and greet his folks. That’s what I was expecting. I’m not wearing warm pants. No long underwear. Jake’s giving me what he calls “the abridged tour.”
A blustery night is a weird time to be surveying the property. I can tell he really wants me to see it. He points out the apple orchard, and where the veggie gardens are in summer. We come up to an old barn.
“The sheep are in there,” he says. “Dad probably gave them some grain an hour ago.”
He leads me to a wide door that opens from the top half. We walk in. The light is dim, but I can make out silhouettes. Most of the sheep are lying down. A few are chewing. I can hear it. The sheep look spiritless, immobilized by the cold, their breath floating up around them. They look at us, vacantly. The barn has thin plywood walls and cedar pillars. The roof is some type of sheet metal, aluminum maybe. In several places, the walls are cracked or contain holes. It seems a dreary place to pass your time.
The barn isn’t what I’d pictured. Of course I don’t say anything to Jake. It seems dreary. And it smells.
“That’s their cud,” says Jake. “They’re always doing that. Chewing.”
“What’s cud?”
“It’s semidigested food that they regurgitate and chew like gum. Beyond the odd bolus sighting, not much excitement in the barn at this time of night.”
Jake doesn’t say anything as he leads me out of the barn. There’s something much more disturbing than the cud and the constant chewing out here. There are the two carcasses up against the wall. Two woolly carcasses.
Limp and lifeless, both have been stacked up outside against the side of the barn. It’s not what I’m expecting to see. There’s no blood or gore, no flies, no scent, nothing to suggest these were ever living creatures, no signs of decay. They could just as easily be made of synthetic rather than organic material.
I want to stare at them, but I also want to get farther away. I’ve never seen dead lambs before, other than on my plate with garlic and rosemary. It seems to me, maybe for the first time, that there are varying degrees of dead. Like there are varying degrees of everything: of being alive, of being in love, of being committed, of being sure. These lambs aren’t sleepwalking through life. They aren’t discouraged or sick. They aren’t thinking about giving up. These tailless lambs are dead, extremely dead, ten-out-of-ten dead.
“What will happen to the lambs?” I call to Jake, who’s walking ahead, away from the barn. He’s hungry now, I can tell, and wants to hurry up, get inside. The wind is picking up.
“What?” he yells over his shoulder. “You mean the dead ones?”
“Yeah.”
Jake doesn’t reply. He just keeps walking.
I’m not sure what else to say. Why didn’t he say anything about the dead lambs? I’m the one who saw them. I’d rather ignore them, but now that I’ve seen them, I can’t.
“Will anything happen to them?” I ask.
“I don’t know. What do you mean? They’re already dead.”
“Do they stay there, or get buried or anything?”
“Probably burn them at some point. In the bonfire. When it gets warmer, in the spring.” Jake continues walking ahead of me. “They’re frozen for now anyway.” They didn’t look all that different from lambs that are alive and healthy, at least in my mind. But they’re dead. There’s something so similar to living, healthy lambs, but also so different.
I jog to catch up, trying not to slip and fall. We’re far enough away from the barn now that when I turn back, the shape of the two lambs looks like a single inanimate form, a solid mass—a bag of grain resting against the wall.
“Come on,” he calls, “I’ll show you the old pen where they used to keep pigs. They don’t have pigs anymore; they were too much work.”
I follow him along the path until he stops. The pen looks abandoned, untouched for a few years. That’s my feeling. The pigs are gone, but the enclosure is still there.
“So what happened to the pigs?”
“The last two were quite old and weren’t moving around much anymore,” he says. “They had to be put down.”
“And they never got any new ones or baby pigs? Piglets. Is that how it usually works?”
“Sometimes. But I guess they never replaced them. They’re a lot of work and expensive to keep.”
I should probably know better, but I’m curious. “Why did they have to put the pigs down?”
“That’s what happens on a farm. It’s not always pleasant.”
“Yeah, but were they sick?”
He turns back and looks at me. “Forget it. I don’t think you’d like the truth.”
“Just tell me. I need to know.”
“Sometimes it’s hard, out here on a farm like this. It’s work. My parents hadn’t been inside the pen to check on the pigs for a few days. They just tossed their food into the pen. The pigs were lying in the same corner day after day, and after a while, Dad decided he’d better have a good look at them. When he went inside, the pigs didn’t look well. He could tell they were in some discomfort.
“He decided he better try to move them. Dad almost fell over backward when he lifted up the first pig. But he did it. He lifted and turned it. He found its belly was swarming with maggots. Thousands of them. It looked like its entire underside was covered in moving rice. The other one was even worse than the first. Both pigs were literally being eaten alive. From the inside out. And you’d never really know if you just looked at them from afar. From a distance, they seemed content, relaxed. Up close, it was a different story. I told you: life isn’t always pleasant.”
“Holy shit.”
“The pigs were old and their immune systems were probably shot. Infection set in. Rot. They’re pigs, after all. They live in filth. It probably started with a small cut on one of them, and some flies landed in the wound. Anyway, Dad had to put the pigs down. That was his only choice.”
Jake steers us out and starts walking again, crunching through the snow. I’m trying to use his same footsteps, where the snow’s been compressed a bit.
“Those poor creatures,” I say. But I get it. I do. They had to be put down and put out of their misery. Suffering like that is unendurable. Even if the solution is final. The two lambs. The pigs. It really is nonnegotiable, I think. There’s no going back. Maybe they were lucky, to go like that after what they’d been through. To at least be liberated from some of the suffering.
Unlike the frozen lambs, there’s nothing restful or humane about the image of those pigs Jake has planted in my mind. It makes me wonder: What if suffering doesn’t end with death? How can we know? What if it doesn’t get better? What if death isn’t an escape? What if the maggots continue to feed and feed and feed and continue to be felt? This possibility scares me.