September 1st, 993 Domina Solaria

“Sorry Ah won’t be joinin’ ya on your mornin’ run,” Applejack apologizes as she places her licked-clean plate on the counter. “But me’n ‘Shy gotta head down to the train station.”

“Picking up the pigs, right?” Doug asks as he grabs Fluttershy’s plate for her and stacks it on his own. Breakfast had been a simple affair, as always, with pancakes and a special apple pie for all, with extra hay for the ponies. The counter is cluttered as always; the special of the day is pies, and Big Mac will make a delivery to one of the smaller nearby towns. Applejack will be taking the extras to market, as well as their normal crates headed for the train station.

“Eeyup,” Applejack continues. She glances at her herdmate. “Supposed to be, what, half a dozen piglets?”

“The word is ‘shoat’, since they’ve weaned,” Fluttershy explains patiently, “and there are eight of them as well as the two older hogs.”

“Well, Ah’ll be.” Applejack playfully rubs at Fluttershy’s head as she returns to the table, drawing a cheerful smile. “Never thought ‘Shy’d be teachin’ me ‘bout farmin’.”

“I-it’s nothing, really,” Fluttershy says meekly.

Applejack rolls her eyes, going back to the counter to start stacking crates of pies on her back.

Fluttershy turns to Doug. “I’m sorry I won’t be joining you on your run either.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Doug says as he takes a load of pies outside and loads them on the cart.

The three of them pause outside, looking at the yard space designated for the pigs. It’s by one of the smaller, closer barns they use for storage. They put up a rough pearwood picket fence more as a boundary than any serious attempt to keep the pigs corralled if they tried to break free. The pigs out-mass Applejack, and the earth pony would have laughed off an attempt to stymie her with such a flimsy barricade.

“Never thought Ah’d be a swinemare,” Applejack says, a touch of resignation in her voice. She sighs, slumping over as she stares at the enclosure.

“So,” Doug says, his curiosity overtaking his trepidation about discussing the subject, “would we do any of the… oh, what word would you use.” The two ponies glance up at him, a certain dread filling their stomachs. “Processing? Harvesting?” His mouth purses slightly. “Butchering? Here?”

With each unsavory word Applejack’s face drains a little more blood, leaving her as pale as a sun dried bone. She gags when she tries to open her mouth, disgust leaving a foul taste behind. Fluttershy merely looks resigned to the reality of the situation, her muzzle a dejected frown as her eyes wet.

“We ain’t turnin’ Sweet Apple Acres into Sweet Abattoir Acres,” Applejack says resolutely. She had done some reading up on what raising animals entailed, and hadn't been enthused by the results. “No matter how much we might save doin’ the…” She gulps rather than decide on a word. “...In-house.”

“Works for me,” Doug says, not terribly enthusiastic at the idea of running a slaughterhouse. Or working in one, for that matter. Especially with the readily apparent intelligence the animals possess. Except… he finds it intriguing that splurging on a beef or pork burger at Sugarcube Corner doesn’t trouble him nearly as much. That they taste reheated instead of grilled fresh, and are quite expensive, helps him to not return and try more. Though, if he is able to experiment and find a mix of spices composed for his taste instead of a pony’s or griffon’s? That might be worth pursuing.

He’s curious which is cheaper, not only economically but morally: shipping live animals who almost certainly know what will happen to them, or preserving the meat after having done the butchering locally. Though, who exactly would be doing that butchering is an open question.

“You got the rest?” Applejack asks as she hooks herself up to the cart. Doug nods and heads back inside.

The wealthier carnivore species - specifically dragons, though a griffon that came across a windfall also qualifies - would purchase the animals in advance. The gems and bits accounted for feed, housing, and transportation of the animal in question. All ten of the pigs they will have are bought and paid for, with a future clause in the contract for as many pigs as they are able to grow, delivered in seven years. Unsavory types who might be drawn by the prospect of easy bits are generally deterred by the pound of flesh the dragons demand for unsatisfactory shipments; with the same bits being promised potentially turning to locating any such individuals, the number of such incidents is, thankfully, quite low.

Granny Smith is poking around the new stove they bought with the infusion of bits, searching for something. He grabs the rest of the apple fritters and Brown Betties and returns outside, loading them on the cart.

“Well, we’ll have a cartload of new critters when we get back,” Applejack says with a wave to Doug. It helps to term them such: critters, instead of animals. Even livestock hits a little too close to home, the very reminder that they are a-live painful to contemplate. That ponies are very much a part of the foodchain - and not at the top - makes Applejack even more thankful for everything Princess Celestia does to keep their nation safe.

“Dang nab it,” Granny Smith mutters to herself as Doug returns to the kitchen. “Could'a sworn it was right here…”

“What’cha looking for?” Doug asks as he pours himself a glass of milk.

“Mah pie tin,” Granny Smith states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He motions to the bottom of the stove. “Ah know Ah put it right here…”

“It didn’t get moved to the cabinets?” Doug says, frowning. It isn’t there. He looks in the pantry. Same thing. There are dozens of pie tins they just used and Granny Smith looks past all of them. “What’s so special about this pie tin?”

“It ain’t just any old pie tin, sonny,” Granny Smith explains testily. “They don’t make ‘em like they u’st.”

“Mm,” Doug says, still searching. He’s annoyed she didn’t really answer his question. “Does it look like the other pie tins?”

Granny Smith huffs, motioning to the stack of dirty tins. “Ah kept it under the stove ‘cause the metal would absorb the heat, an’ everypony knows that the best way to bake a pie is all the way through. Nowadays, they use cheap metal that don’t heat evenly.” She nods sagely to herself. “If ya wanna get a quality pie tin, ya gotta go antique. But this beaut of a tin ain’t here!” She growls at the new stove, her hoof clanging off the side.

“Could it be with the old stove?” Doug asks, stretching his back. Removing their old stove had been a sordid affair, mostly because the ponies kept getting sentimental about getting rid of absolutely anything that is older than twenty years old. Perhaps coincidentally, Applejack did not meet that bar.

“Hmm,” Granny Smith ponders. Her keen eye scans the stacks of pie tins again. “...Could be…” She turns to Doug. “You know where we put it?”

“I helped move it there,” Doug says, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, sonny,” Granny Smith reprimands, shaking her shakin’ hoof at him. The other hoof she can’t shake on account of her bad hip. She starts walking to the door, turning back to regard him. “You gonna help search?”

The barn in question is located on the far side of the farm. It holds all their old and mothballed equipment, though a lot of it might only need a good cleaning to be in reasonable working order. The Apples didn’t throw anything away if they could potentially, in some conceivable universe, make use of it again. Old saws missing eight of a dozen teeth, irregular chicken wire fencing just waiting to be jigsawed into place, and rusted irrigation pipes make up just part of the myriad of the items stored in their ultra long-term storage barn. Doug might have called it Apple-duty, but that would just earn him a cuffing from Granny Smith.

Doug glances to the path he generally takes on his run. “Sure,” he says, debating if taking the long way will mean he only beats her by a half hour. He starts his jog, calling back, “I’ll see you at the Apple-duty barn.”

“What did you call it?” Granny Smith demands as Doug takes off.

To cut a long story only slightly less long, the pie tin in question is not at the Apple-duty storage barn.

“So,” Doug says, rubbing his still-smarting ear. How Granny Smith managed to swan dive off the barn and cuff him he’ll never know. “Now what?”

“Ah guess we go back’n ask Applejack,” Granny Smith says, frowning as she ambles back to the farmhouse. “Hopefully she knows.”

“And we’ll get to meet the pigs,” Doug says. He glances to Granny Smith as he walks with her. “You raised pigs before?”

“Do Ah look like a hoghoof?” Granny Smith snaps. She motions at her cutie mark of a large pie. “Born’n bred Apple farmer here, thank you very much.”

“It could be a meat pie,” Doug retorts.

“It could be a meat pie…” Granny Smith mutters to herself.

Silence stretches for a few long seconds.

“I heard pigs like mud,” Doug says, filling the uncomfortable void. “Wallowing in it, splashing around. Helps keep them cool, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm,” Granny Smith says pensively. Truth be told, she has very little interest in learning more about any animals besides chickens and cows. But she wouldn’t be matron of Sweet Apple Acres forever, and cuts Applejack and Big Mac a little slack to try their own things every now and then. “Ain’t a lot of water by the pigpen.”

“Lot of work to haul, too,” Doug says. He and Granny Smith turn to look at each other. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Granny Smith nods, turning around. “If you can irrigate a field, you can irrigate a pen. Ah’ll get the cart.”

“Sure,” Doug says, nodding along. It would take a lot of the old pipe, but they should be able to make it from one of the lakes to the pen.

Next Chapter: Ch. 101 - Faminebind Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 6 Minutes