The survival philosophy of pigs

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I was born in a poor and remote rural area. Every day, besides endless mountains, scattered paddy fields, and vast, dense forests, there was practically nothing much to see. When I left the mountains, I breathed a sigh of relief: I'd finally made it. But after living in the bustling city for a long time, returning to the countryside, revisiting the narrow lanes and alleys, the lush forests, the clear streams and waterfalls, the towering mountains, especially walking into the farmhouses scattered at the end of the dirt roads and seeing the large pigs tied up in their pens, I thought: it was primitive, yet beautiful; it was what I had longed to see for so long, yet it held many philosophical implications.

I remembered that because my family was poor, I couldn't earn enough money to buy the allocated pork from the fish market at that time. My mother had several children, all still growing, and they all longed to see the pork carefully placed on the chopping board, sliced off piece by piece, and thrown into a boiling pot, sizzling and releasing its aroma. The entire wooden hut would be enveloped in the overflowing fragrance, drawing gasps of amazement from the whole village. At those times, I would also wonder why the pig in the sty wasn't growing up, why it ate its feed so slowly, why it didn't just lie there fatten itself up, so that my brothers and I could finally taste the deliciousness of pork and experience the life of having our mouths greasy with oil.

Our pig was always prepared for the New Year. That pig, as if sensing the sharpening of the knife, would often refuse to eat, or try every means to choose the better bits of feed, leaving some bran and vegetables in the trough every day, seemingly defying us. Back then, being young, and hearing my mother constantly say, "Once the pig is fattened up, we can eat pork," I often urged the pig to eat its food quickly. I would even run into the pigpen and pour the leftovers from my bowl into the trough for the pig to eat. The pig, however, was ungrateful, constantly playing tricks on me. Every day it would eat a little, leave a little, and grow a little on its own, unwilling to enter a rapid growth phase. It seemed to be prolonging its life by refusing to become fat. It also seemed to have forgotten that in those impoverished days, even if it didn't get fat, it would still be slaughtered. My brothers and I couldn't wait for it to become obese. The mountains, the water, the forests, the villages, while witnessing poverty, were also eagerly anticipating the pig's slaughter and the smell of meat.

Year after year, the pig tried to escape its fate of slaughter, only to be sent to the guillotine by our gluttonous nature. After the helpless screams, the empty pigpen and the trough with a few scraps of feed remained, waiting for the starving rats to lick them. On the stove in the farmhouse, on the simple dining table, came the fragrant aroma of pork. We ate, forgot, and reflected on the pig's growth process, always feeling that while the pig continued its monotonous fate, it was also changing its way of thinking.

Gradually, my brothers and I were better off, and everyone felt that life was getting better, but my mother still kept the pig in that pigpen, saying that raising one pig would mean we wouldn't have to eat the feed-fed pigs from the city, and at the end of the year we could eat lean pigs that had grown up eating pig feed, with less fat and a delicate flavor. With pigs in the pigpen under my mother's care, I would often drive back to the countryside to see how they were growing. And at those times, I always wondered if the pig could eat less each day, so that when it entered slaughter at the New Year, it would be a lean pig, not a greasy, fat one. However, the pig's thinking seemed to have changed again: the trough was always licked clean, and it ate everything its mother fed it, leaving nothing behind. Unwittingly, the pig was once again fighting against the guillotine, trying to grow fatter so that no one would want to kill it for its fat. The pig

's change in thinking was correct; it used refusing to eat to avoid early slaughter, and although it would still die, it could at least live a few more days. However, its attempt to avoid early slaughter by eating more didn't yield the results it imagined; it was completely wrong. People had already changed their perspective: it grew too fast, and humans didn't want to eat its fat, so they had to send it to the guillotine early.

In fact, the pig didn't need to change its thinking; it could still use its previous methods to deal with humans, and its chances of prolonging its life would be much greater.

The pig's change of mindset didn't achieve its intended purpose, but it had at least escaped its old way of thinking and sought a better one. The paths and lanes remained in the forest, the alleys and lanes in the village, but its mindset had undergone a qualitative transformation, mirroring the changes in the clear stream. From the pig's change of mindset, we can see that if we remain stagnant because we fear being trapped in our fate, we will never break free from our own constraints and will ultimately achieve nothing.

In this respect, we should perhaps be grateful to those pigs awaiting slaughter.

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