Day breaks over the eastern tree line, backlighting the greenhouses in a coral glow. I peek over the pig fence to find them nestled in the hay, my morning delight for arriving at their gate before they’ve begun browsing. They approach me in earnest and I scratch their bristly heads and listen attentively to their baritone snorts, a language I’ve come to know. I wrestle with my daily lamentation, their imminent death. I have to ask myself if the joy I’ve had in caring for these animals is cancelled out by my writhing moral conundrum.