I stepped hesitantly into the classroom and snuck past a handful of students who had arrived early. I felt self-conscious sitting down at the front of the room, facing 40 or so green plastic chairs arranged in haphazard rows, most of which would soon be occupied. When Becca first suggested that I give a guest lecture on animal-assisted therapy and experiment design in the class she’s teaching, I was excited. But for the past few days, I had been almost dreading this moment, although I knew that I would stop worrying when I got into the flow of the lecture. When I’m teaching, whether I’m working with humans or other animals, I become more aware of the subtle forms of communication that help me understand my students. This makes me feel more connected with those around me and keeps me in the moment.

I often diligently avoid conflicts, which sometimes means being overly polite or letting other people have their way. But when I feel comfortable fully expressing my opinions, I have always hated to back down. When I was a kid, that compelled me to insist for years that “stragedy” was the correct spelling and change the rules of chess so I could un-checkmate myself. Although I do not condone cheating, my years of practice standing my ground and finding creative ways to come out on top fueled a productive debate at a recent lab meeting. When Jessie critiqued the experiment design that Nora and I had proposed in our presentation, Jessie and I began a battle of wits that evolved into a valuable discussion.

The tiny calico kitten nestled into the crook of my arm and peered up at me with large eyes that had seen so little of the world. The past couple weeks had been stressful for me, but in that moment, I felt at peace. There was no doubt that Becca’s foster kittens, who she had brought to our weekly lab meeting, had put me in a better state of mind. But I also enjoyed catching up with my coworkers and I was glad just to be back at the ranch after spending too much time at home, so it was hard to tell if the kittens were solely responsible for reducing my stress. Soon after that lab meeting, I chose a scientific paper to present to my coworkers as inspiration for our own future experiments. I had initially hoped that we could incorporate some of the paper’s methods in our research, but I discovered that, like my experience with the kittens at the lab meeting, the study was full of confounding variables. My presentation ended up being mostly a cautionary tale about what to avoid in our own research.

Nora gasped as I slammed the knife through the frozen strawberry, nicking my fingernail and narrowly missing my flesh. We were anxiously awaiting our presentation on animal-assisted therapy at the weekly lab meeting, and preparing treats for the piglets had turned out to be an effective (but dangerous) way to relieve tension. Although the atmosphere at lab meetings is laid back and I felt well prepared, I always feel stressed before presenting. During our presentation, while we were discussing the meaning of elevated cortisol levels in a study on therapy dogs, Becca pointed out that in some cases, acute stress is a healthy response that helps prepare us to handle challenges. This was a good reminder that sometimes the goal of our work with therapy animals may not be to eliminate stress, but rather to change people’s perceptions of it.

“Care Bear, come!” I called, as she pressed her rubbery nose against Nora’s hand. We were trying to train the piglets recalls by calling them back and forth between us, but our words were as meaningless to them as their constant grunting is to us. Instead of finding patterns in our speech, they randomly moved back and forth between Nora and I and offered various behaviors, such as jumping on us or sitting, hoping for a treat. Perhaps the piglets felt a frustration similar to what Nora and I felt when we started designing the Green Care Lab website, unable to comprehend the language of the software we were using.

“Did he have a bad experience with people in the past?” The man asked with concern as he watched Romeo jumping around, squealing, and trying to wriggle out of his harness. The man must have thought that was the only reasonable explanation for such a dramatic reaction to being pet. I explained that pigs just have an instinctive fear of being touched by humans, although it can be overcome with extensive socialization. I recalled that, when I was a child, people used to ask my parents almost the exact same question that the man had asked me. I didn’t squeal, but I did jump away in alarm if someone touched me. Some of us are born perceiving more danger in the world than others, but I have learned that even seemingly immutable fear instincts can often change in a positive environment.

Olivia and Randy, the mini ponies, pressed their velvety noses against the fence. I couldn’t tell if they were curious about this hoofed creature who was even smaller than they were, or if they were just interested in the food she was devouring. Either way, I was impressed that the mini ponies and mini donkeys, who had just arrived at the ranch the day before, were so calmly investigating this strange little animal. Jelly Bean also seemed unphased, and she eagerly gobbled her food next to the inquisitive noses. The piglets’ lives are filled with an expanding cast of characters, which now includes horses, donkeys, dogs, and humans. This mix of different species provides ample opportunities for socialization, but also the potential for chaos.

While I waited for Jessie to arrive, I wandered around the ranch, chasing shadows. I was anxious to find the right backdrop for our photo shoot with a pony, but the lighting was constantly changing as the sun slipped slowly towards the horizon. I wanted the softness of shade to show the details, and I wanted green (for a website about Green Care), which are both rare commodities during the scorching summer in Davis. I finally settled on a leafy tree that was blocking the sun, but I still had little confidence in my plan. Animals are always unpredictable subjects, and I had rarely photographed humans. As Jessie approached me, I felt apprehensive but hopeful. When I was hired as a Piglet Whisperer, I never imagined that it would give me an opportunity to rediscover photography.

Nora and I arrived at the ranch early in the morning for the piglets’ first journey outside their stall. After corralling Care Bear and Jelly Bean into the pen, I buckled Romeo into his smart blue harness and opened the stall door. Although we had tried to prepare the piglets for this moment, we had no idea what to expect. Would they shrink back in fear? Would they attempt to bolt and slip out of their harnesses? I placed a small pile of food outside the stall and watched Romeo step out into the big world with only a hint of caution. He was ready to rule the ranch.