I reach through and touch his wet nose. He nuzzles in as close as he can. The gap allows just enough space to poke his snout through and smell the air for the first time, but he chooses to look at me.
The squealing that can only be described as the sounds that would echo in the pits of hell are muted in a brief moment as we acknowledge each other.
The truck shifts gears, we loose eye contact. He is pushed to the back as his siblings panic, as they begin to thrash around. They know. And I all I can say is sorry.
The truck driver is angry. He has been inconvenienced. His truck idles for 5 minutes. That is all we can compromise of his time. He has food to put on the table for his family. He has a 12 hour shift to get off. He hates his job anyway.
I look down and I cry as the truck is now behind the gates of the slaughter house. My hands are shaking.
To think his body will be packaged and placed on a shelf tomorrow with a cheap price tag that is not a fraction of a cent close to his worth, I should know. I meet him.