The lab in question historically used as little analgesia (pain medication) as possible for their procedures and subsequently lost a lot of their pigs. I always wondered why they weren’t given appropriate pain medication. After all, they were having open heart surgery! If a human had the same procedure, they would be in the ICU, recovering with weeks of pain medication and round the clock care. These pigs were just returned to their pens after surgery without any support: no fluids, no pain medications, not even a blanket to keep them warm.

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I had my thermometer and stethoscope ready, but I also brought treats—anything that might coax him into eating. I realized, however, that the most vital thing I could offer was not a medical intervention but a moment of kindness.

 

I sat on the floor, pulled down my face mask, and took off my gloves. I started speaking sweetly to him. He was shivering, scared, and alone, with a large bandage on his neck, where some of his surgeries had been performed.
 

I hesitated for a moment, then decided to grab a heavy blanket from the laundry room. Would it frighten him? Would he see it as yet another invasive object in his sterile world? With gentle hands, I draped the soft fabric around his shoulders. To my surprise, he leaned into it, seeking solace. In that moment, it became clear: he was cold, he longed for warmth, and perhaps most importantly, he wanted to be held. “Of course he does,” I thought. “This is just a baby.” 

As I sat there, I watched him quietly. I reached out and placed my hands on his back, gently rubbing down to his belly. He rolled onto his side, lifting his back leg as an invitation to continue. It was a small gesture but monumental in its significance. His eyes looked softer.

 

Before I knew it, #726 had shifted closer to me, nuzzling me firmly and then climbing into my lap, a heavy weight of baby pig and vulnerability. He rubbed his little snout along my arm and burrowed his face into my armpit, and I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility wash over me; nothing in the world could pull me away from this moment. 

 

So there I sat: cross-legged on the dirty shavings, limbs heavy with the weight of this “baby” pig nestled into me, his snout still tucked against my armpit. Time seemed to dissolve. I could feel the world outside—the buzz of my pager, the calls of my coworkers—but none of it mattered. #726 was dozing off, his breathing steadying as he found comfort in my presence. I could feel my legs growing numb beneath me, but each moment spent with him was something I wasn't willing to trade for the demands of the facility.

As I sat there in this moment of intimacy, I reflected on the life of this creature before me. He was not just a number, a subject in a research study; he was a living being, capable of feeling pain, fear, and, in this moment, comfort. I thought of the countless pigs like him, suffering in silence, and how easy it was for us to overlook them. But here, with #726, I was reminded of the profound connections we can form, even in the bleakest of circumstances.

Eventually, my pager chimed, a reminder of the responsibilities that awaited me. But I still couldn’t bring myself to move. I sent a message to my coworkers, asking someone to take over my pages.

 

For that hour, I was not just a veterinary worker; I was a mom to this baby pig. I was a friend to pile on, and most importantly, a witness to the quiet resilience of this young piglet who only longed for comfort in a world that had stripped it away.

 

In that moment with #726, I found a piece of my own humanity reflected at me. It was a stark reminder of the importance of compassion, not just for those we can easily relate to, but for all creatures navigating their own struggles in a world that overlooks them. And as I sat there, I understood that our relationships with these animals transcend the boundaries of science, becoming a testament to the power of empathy and connection.