What my father told me:
I'd come down from Sydney to visit your Mum who was living in Melbourne. She'd be busy with school so I'd find myself work as a day labourer to keep myself busy. One of those jobs was in an abbatoir that was in Abbotsford.
It was my job to lead the animals to get slaughtered. The lambs and the cows didn't seem to have any idea and would follow easily but the pigs. The pigs, knew. They fought, squealed like anything and cried.
Afterwards it was my job to clean their blood by sweeping the floors of the abbatoir. In those days all the drains led straight into the Yarra river.
I lasted one day on that job but ask your mother and she'll tell you; I smelt of their blood for week.
I'm jotting down a family story every day over the month of March for #b03,
click here to catch up on the stories I've shared so far.
That's a sad but awesome story... I agree with pigs knowing they are going to get killed. When we kill pigs in the Philippines at fiesta time they always know and scream... the chickens never know though.
ReplyDeleteGreat story.
xox