|
HERFORD, Germany -- As his 1,500 pigs polish off their evening meal,
Ulrich Krutemeier climbs into the stall for a snuggle with his schwein.
But it's clear the chemistry just isn't there. The pigs creep back nervously
as soon as Mr. Krutemeier's mud-encrusted boots touch the floor. As a
few of the more curious inch closer, he tickles a snout. The pig returns
the affection with a bite.
"Ouch!" the sandy-haired Mr. Krutemeier yelps, jerking back
his lanky arm. "Only someone who has no idea about pigs would think
of this," he mutters as the pigs scurry away again.
That someone is the government of North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany's most
densely populated state in terms of both people and pigs. Officials want
to regain the confidence of meat-wary consumers in the wake of mad-cow
disease and other food scares that rocked Germany this past year. Part
of the answer, they say, is better testing and hygiene. Just as important
is that farmers raise their animals with more of a human touch.
Lest any farmer wonder how, the state's agriculture ministry spelled
out the new and improved rights of North Rhine-Westphalia's six million
pigs in a recent decree. A pig should get one square meter of stall space
and a straw or soft rubber mat for napping. When it's time to play, the
pigs must have chains or chewy toys on hand. "Balls also can be made
available to the pigs for activity material," the edict states. Each
pig should get at least eight hours of daylight. During the darker, shorter
days of winter, farmers must compensate with lamps.
But what really rankled farmers is a declaration that a farmer or farmhand
must spend at least 20 seconds looking at each pig each day -- and back
up the loving care with paperwork showing he has enough pighands to provide
quality time. Without it, a farmer can't get a license to expand or start
a pig-rearing business. Many farmers have come to mock the edict as the
Kuschelregel, or the cuddle rule.
So far, the rules haven't done much to bring farmers and their pigs closer.
Egbert Storck, a 48-year-old farmer with 1,300 pigs in the rolling, wheat-covered
hills on the outskirts of Herford, is befuddled. "What am I supposed
to do exactly? Go like this?" Leaning over the fence of one of his
pig stalls, he clinches his square jaw and fixes one of the pigs with
an exaggerated bug-eyed stare, ticking off the seconds. Feeling the intensity
of his gaze, the pig turns to hide its face behind the haunches of another.
"See, they don't like it either," he says, throwing up his hands.
It's not that North Rhine-Westphalian farmers aren't fond of their swine.
This is home to nearly a quarter of Germany's 26 million pigs. It's the
source of Westphalian ham and more than 300 kinds of sausages. Most farms
are small family operations, some dating back to the 12th century. "I
grew up with these guys," Mr. Krutemeier, 37, says of his pigs. As
the youngest son, he inherited his father's farm, following local tradition
here.
To protect their livelihood, Mr. Krutemeier and other local farmers already
provide their pigs with agricultural innovations such as state-of-the-art
central heating, homeopathic medicine and even toys. After years of experimenting
with old tires, then miniature soccer balls, Mr. Krutemeier found his
pigs preferred to gnaw on steel chains and wooden blocks for fun. "If
my pigs aren't healthy, I'm not healthy," he says.
|
|
|
But farmers fret that the new rules could regulate them out of business.
A farmer with 1,500 pigs, for example, would need eight hours, or one
full-time farmhand, to spend 20 seconds a day with each animal. Farmers
estimate the rules would cost them about 12 extra euros ($10) per pig,
nearly as much as their current profit.
Many fear that will put them at a greater comparative disadvantage to
Southern and Eastern Europe, where pig rearing is held to lower standards
and prices are cheaper. Just how real the threat is was unveiled in the
Herford police blotter last year: A truck that had overturned on its way
to a nearby sausage factory was found to be carrying pork from Spain,
sparking a local scandal.
"If we were required to give every pig a reclining chair, we wouldn't
have a problem with it, as long as everyone in the European Union did
it, too," says Wilhelm Brueggemeier, a local farmer.
For farmers, two women personify the threat: local agricultural minister
Baerbel Hoehn, who drafted the edict, and her fellow Green Party member,
Renate Kuenast, a spike-haired former lawyer who runs Germany's national
ministry for consumer protection, food and agriculture. The Greens, who
run the state and federal governments in coalition with the Social Democrats,
devised the local rules and have attracted the farmers' ire. At a recent
farmers' forum, bodyguards stood by with umbrellas to shield the two ministers
in the event of flying produce.
Named to the post after the first signs of mad-cow disease were discovered
in Germany a year ago, Ms. Kuenast already has angered farmers by fingering
industrial agriculture as a big part of the problem. She proposed increasing
organic farming from 2.5% to 20% of German agriculture over the next decade.
But even Ms. Kuenast's minor publicity stunts -- such as "adopting"
a Rhineland sow named Berta and her 16 piglets -- cause farmers to gnash
their teeth.
"She wants consumers to think of 'Babe' when they think of pigs,"
says farmer Anneliese Schulte-Steffens, referring to the 1995 movie about
a talking pig that narrowly escapes the butcher. "We raise pigs to
make a living, not to cuddle and let them sleep on our beds."
North Rhine-Westphalian agricultural-ministry officials point out the
local edict is only temporary until a nationwide pig-rearing law is passed,
most likely next year. But they hope it will serve as a model for the
legislation. "People increasingly want to know where their meat comes
from," says Leo Bosten, a ministry spokesman. "We need to make
sure both animals and consumers are protected."
It's too soon to say whether consumers prefer pork from pigs reared with
more affection. But at Haus Duesse, a nearby state-sponsored agricultural
training and testing center, farming experts are checking the pigs' reaction
-- and getting mixed reviews.
Nocturnal animals by nature, the pigs don't mind low lighting. But as
one of the center's agricultural engineers, Hans-Joachim Luecker, turns
up the glare to simulate the different levels of state-prescribed light,
some start to squint and nip nervously at the others. In one stall, the
pigs have taken to their soft rubber napping mat, snoozing alongside each
other in a neat row. In the next, though, the pigs prefer to stretch out
on the perforated concrete floor instead, relegating the mat to their
group litter box.
"We can make all the rules in the world," he says. "But
the pigs sort out what they like for themselves."
Write to Vanessa Fuhrmans at vanessa.fuhrmans@wsj.com
|
