One Last Kiss for Franklin

All I wanted to do was give him one last kiss. But I couldn’t.

Franklin was in pain and the only way to manage that pain until I could return to say goodbye would have been to give him a heavy narcotic. That is NOT how we manage end of life care at Catskill Animal Sanctuary.

Franklin weighed four pounds and was only a few weeks old when he arrived in the winter of 2006. He likely would have had his skull bashed in by the pork producers he was rescued from simply because he was the runt of his litter. He would have grown too slowly to be profitable for them. Better to crush his skull, or let him languish in a pile of dying babies. That is the industry’s way. But luckily for Franklin, a kind neighbor intervened, and brought him to us in a shoebox lined with hay.

I will never forget the first moment I held Franklin in my arms. How tiny he was! Just the size of a large sweet potato. How he hated being held. And how desperately he wanted to nurse. With his cool snout, he poked and prodded every inch of every human who allowed him to do so. If he just kept prodding, surely he would find a nipple that would feed him as his mom had, all too briefly. Instead of his mom’s milk, though, Franklin drank from a bottle every few hours, around-the-clock. And he slept in bed — my bed – for those first weeks. Both my partner David and my dog Murphy should have been canonized for their patience during those sleepless nights when little Franklin rooted and snuggled and poked and pushed with his hooves. Though tiny, they still hurt like hell. David and I showed off the tiny bruises, loved our little man, and were grateful when a few trusted friends took him for sleepovers. Murphy would sigh but came to love his new brother.

Franklin was not the easiest pig to love. He was moody, high-strung, and bit more than a few of us when he was cranky. But love is love, and Franklin had my heart from the moment we met, through his summer at “animal camp” (documented in my book of the same title,) and into his old age. Suffering from cancer, he still uttered his soft, high-pitched “I love you” sound whenever I lay down next to him.

We managed Franklin’s symptoms effectively for two full years. But when his appetite diminished and his trips outside to enjoy the sun became the exception rather than the rule, we suspected it was time to let him go. “Dr. Dave,” a wonderful vet from Hurley Veterinary Hospital, confirmed what we knew. Franklin was in pain.

All I wanted was to kiss that wet snout one more time. But I was away, and an animal’s last moments can never be about us. To allow him to suffer for a full day until I could return to say goodbye would have flown in the face of all that we believe. Summoning the courage to say goodbye to those we love mightily when their quality of life is gone is our final act of love. So, in a quiet moment, our farm manager tiptoed in and whispered my last, private words to him. Franklin died peacefully, enveloped in love. That is how we do it.