It was dark. Also, cold. It was warmer in the stable. But also, stuffy. It stank, of feces and blood and death. Pigs on fully slatted floors. What had I lost in this stable? Nothing. It didn’t belong to me and neither did the animals. Foreign property. Foreign reason. I had ignored both when I opened the gate, which was not locked but ajar. I actually came to convince myself that the self-proclaimed animal rights activists were spreading lies. Their pictures were fake. That couldn’t be right. After all, farmers lived from their animals. It would be completely illogical to treat them as badly as their opponents claimed. It is said that 25% of pigs raised on fully slatted floors die before they even see the inside of a slaughterhouse. But it seemed illogical to me, because after all, these owners make their living with the help of these animals.

But now I was standing there, in the pale light, because the windows were so dirty that it was very dark in this room. There was a corridor and bays to the left and right of it. The pigs screamed because they sensed that someone had come. I heard the sound of hooves on the concrete floor. They came closer, crowded against the wall of the bay that separated it from the corridor. Should I really do that? Look? It was still possible to simply turn around and quietly leave this site. But I decided against it now that I had already ventured so far and broken at least more laws. So, I leaned over the wall and saw them, the pigs, looking at me curiously. These open eyes, this openness and curiosity touched me. But the eyes were not clear, most of them were red from the fumes. I heard coughing. The ammonia smell from the feces under the cracks also made my eyes water, the air scratched my throat when I breathed. But there was more. Ulcers on the joints and injuries all over the body. Open wounds where the tail was. In fact, they had all been docked. And then my eyes fell on an animal that was lying there and looked as if it could no longer get up. I opened the door and went into the bay. I didn’t care if the pigs could walk out into the hallway because I wanted to be with that one pig that was so obviously dying. So, I sat down next to its head and stroked it, this creature that had never experienced anything good from a human in its short life was being stroked shortly before the end. The breath was shallow, and the eyes rose weakly, just once more. This look hit me and went right through me. There was a plea for help, but there was nothing I could do. I told this abusive, dying creature that I could get the vet. He would claim that everything was fine, even that it had died so miserably. This doctor who claimed to care for sick animals would consider it normal, here in this stable. My complaint for animal cruelty would go nowhere. Instead, they took me to the station. Of course, because of the break-in, because I had no business there and it wasn’t any of my business. I would be reported for animal cruelty due to failure to provide assistance. But what could I have done? Then it closed its eyes forever. I cried silently for an unlived life, but that didn’t change anything. I couldn’t even bury him. That’s why I went and joined the animal rights activists, because not only was what they said true, but it was even worse when you didn’t just see it in pictures or in films, but were there live, if a life passed, so completely pointless. The farmer would discover it and dispose of it in the carcass bin. Like so many others before him. This is completely normal for him. But I, I will never forget that look that said I was there to help. And I couldn’t do it. “I can’t help you anymore,” I said to this abused creature, “But I promise you that I will do everything I can to ensure that the day will come when no living being will be mistreated in this way and will have to die alone. “