Remembering the forgotten animal mothers (opinion)

At the puppy mill

Somewhere, right now, a mother lies in a cage, nursing her young.

The cage has no floor--only sharp wire. If her paws, which have never touched grass or even a solid surface--or one of her puppies’ limbs--should slip through the wire, the mother in the cage below might gnaw them off.

Or she herself, in frustration, having spent her entire life in a cage, with more of it to come, might bite at the limbs of the dogs above her.

She pants in the heat. The stacked rows of cages sit in a barn where temperatures can soar, unregulated by either law or compassion. The mother’s burning thirst is compounded by the effort of

If she catches a whiff of a breeze from the outdoors, some instinct might cause her to long for a life with sunshine. At the sound of a human voice, some instinct might cause her to long for a life with a loving touch.

Meanwhile, exhausted, she’ll do her best to care for puppy after puppy in a stream of litters. Her young are taken and sold, perhaps on the Internet, to anyone who will pay the right price, and who may or may not think about the mother who provided their new companion and best friend.

At the egg farm

Somewhere, right now, a mother squats crammed in a cage with five other mothers. Thousands more sit in cages above and below them. It’s difficult to stand on the wire with no floor. It’s impossible to turn around or to spread her wings.

If she becomes ill, she will remain in the cage, unattended, until she dies, or until the other mothers kill her in frustration, having spent their lives in cages, with more of it to come.

Meanwhile, exhausted, she lays egg after egg for the tables of those who may or may not think about the mother who provided their omelettes and their scrambles.

At the dairy

Somewhere, right now, a mother stands in a metal stall, where a machine attached to her immensely swollen and sensitive breasts extracts her milk for ten months at a time. The amount of work she is doing has been compared to that of a human being who jogs six hours a day, every day.

She will be considered productive for two years, during which time she will birth calves, and after which time she will be taken, weak or perhaps ill, to be sold at auction and slaughtered for meat.

At any step along the way, she might be shocked with an electric rod in the eyes or on the anus. If she is too tired or sick to stand, she might be shoved and rolled with a forklift.

Meanwhile, exhausted, she produces gallon after gallon of milk for those who may or may not think about the mother who provided their ice cream and cheeseburgers.

At the pig factory

Somewhere, right now, a mother lies in a metal crate, nursing her young. The farrowing crate is too small for her to stand or lie in easily. Her shoulders are pocked with sores from the unrelenting hard surface, devoid even of the comfort of straw.

With no opportunity to exercise, she suffers from obesity and crippled legs. She bites the bars and she bangs her head against the door.

At two or three weeks of age, her piglets are taken away to be fattened for meat, and she is impregnated again.

When she is no longer considered productive, she will be sent to the slaughterhouse, where workers are required to stun her unconscious with an electric gun. But because the procedure is difficult and imprecise, she might remain conscious and struggling when she is hung upside down to be “bled out.”

Minutes later, she might still be fully conscious when she is immersed in the 140-degree water of the scalding tank.

Meanwhile, exhausted, she produces piglet after piglet for those who may or may not think about the mother who provided their pork chops and bacon strips.

Remembering forgotten mothers

We honor the mothers among us who give life, who nurture, and who sacrifice.

Somewhere, right now, forgotten mothers give life. They nurture. They sacrifice.

When will they be remembered?