The Pig Who Got a Fair Trial (And Human Clothes)
Let’s start with hard evidence. On January 9, 1386, an executioner in Falaise, France submitted an expense claim. It’s still on file. It reads:
“For his efforts and salary for having dragged and then hanged at the Justice in Falaise a sow of approximately three years of age who had eaten the face of the child of Jonnet le Macon, who was in his crib & who was approximately three months old, in such a way that the said infant died from injuries, and ten sous tournoise for a new glove when the Hangman performed the said execution.”
Executioner’s expense receipt from Falaise, France (9 January 1386), recording payment for the trial and hanging of a sow convicted of killing an infant, including reimbursement for gloves. Source: Archives départementales de l’Orne (1 J 763). archives.orne.fr/consulter-nos-archives-en-ligne (Archive search)
Yes. It’s a reimbursement claim. For hanging a pig. Including new gloves.
Let me translate: A pig fatally attacked a baby. The pig was arrested, held in prison (the same cells as human criminals), put on trial, found guilty of murder, and sentenced to death. The executioner got paid extra for new gloves so he wouldn’t have pig blood on his hands during the execution.
But here’s where it gets properly bonkers: according to later accounts, the pig was dressed in human clothing (waistcoat, gloves, and breeches) before being hanged in the town square. The entire town gathered to watch. Some accounts even suggest farmers brought their own pigs to witness the execution, presumably as a deterrent.
An artist painted a fresco of the scene on the wall of the Church of the Holy Trinity. It stayed there for over 400 years until some careless whitewasher destroyed it in 1820.
This wasn’t unusual. Pigs were the most frequently prosecuted animals in medieval Europe with at least 25 documented cases between 1250 and 1500, according to legal records. They roamed freely in towns, grew to several hundred pounds in weight, and occasionally killed children. And when they did, humans didn’t just slaughter them. We gave them trials.
The Lawyer Who Made His Career Defending Rats
In 1522, the town of Autun, France had a crisis. Rats were destroying the barley crop. Famine loomed. The solution? Take the rats to ecclesiastical court.
The bishop appointed a young lawyer named Bartholomew Chassenée to defend the rodents. Now, you might think Chassenée would phone it in – after all, his clients were vermin. But this man was a professional.
The rats failed to appear at their first court date. Chassenée argued that not all the rats had been properly summoned. Given how far they were spread across the diocese, the summons couldn’t possibly have reached every single defendant.
The court agreed. They ordered the summons to be read from every pulpit in Autun.
The rats still didn’t show up.
Chassenée pointed out that under existing law, no defendant should be forced to risk their life to attend court. His clients would have to pass through areas filled with cats and dogs. Clearly, they feared for their safety. They had a legal right to skip the trial.
The court couldn’t argue with this logic. The case was adjourned indefinitely. The rats won. Legally.
Chassenée’s brilliant defence made his reputation. He went on to become the first president of the Parliament of Paris, one of the most powerful legal positions in France.
Years later, when Protestant townspeople in Mérindol faced execution for not attending their own summons, a local nobleman reminded Chassenée of his rat arguments: “If rats deserve safe passage to a fair hearing, surely humans do too?” Chassenée was so moved he persuaded the King of France to delay the sentence indefinitely.
A rat trial literally saved human lives. The same legal arguments about due process and safe passage were later used by Chassenée to delay the execution of Protestant villagers in Mérindol.
The Weevils Who Negotiated Real Estate
But my favourite case involves beetles.
In 1587, the winemakers of St. Julien, France were fed up. Weevils were devastating their vineyards. So they sued. For eight months, lawyers argued the case.
The weevils’ defence attorney cited Genesis: God gave “every thing that creepeth upon the earth” access to “every green herb for meat.” Therefore, his clients had divine permission to eat the grapes.
The prosecution countered that God also put mankind in authority over all animals. The weevils had to leave.
After months of legal deadlock, the court tried mediation. The townspeople offered the weevils a “weevil preserve” – a plot of land outside the vineyards where they could live in perpetuity, with reserved rights-of-way for humans to pass through.
The weevils’ lawyer rejected the offer, arguing the land was “sterile and neither sufficiently nor suitably supplied with food.”
The weevils basically said: “Your settlement offer is rubbish. We want better land.”
The trial continued. We’ll never know the verdict because, and I cannot stress this enough, insects ate the final page of the court record!
The irony is almost too perfect. Weevils taken to court for eating crops. Court case documented on parchment. Bugs eat the verdict. The insects had the last laugh.
So What Changed?
These trials peaked between 1400-1700 and faded during the Enlightenment (18th century).
The reasons are complex and debated by historians, changing philosophical views on animal consciousness, shifting legal systems, urbanisation separating people from animals. Medieval courts operated within a worldview where animals were sometimes treated as moral actors, capable of wrongdoing, or at least subject to divine law. This varied widely by region and court, but the legal records are unambiguous about the procedures used. Whether this reflected genuine belief, served as theological theatre, or fulfilled a psychological need to restore order, we’ll never know with certainty.
But here’s what we know for sure: Medieval courts, whatever their reasons, gave animals formal trials with lawyers and due process.
Modern society decided animals don’t deserve that.
Philosophers like Aquinas argued animals couldn’t commit sins because they lacked reason. Later, Descartes went further, calling animals “beast-machines” with no consciousness at all. By the 1700s, the idea that animals lacked moral agency, meant by some as protection, became justification to treat them as mere property.
We didn’t stop animal trials because we became more compassionate. We stopped because we decided animals couldn’t understand justice anyway. So why bother with the lawyers?
The Uncomfortable Question
Medieval peasant: “This rat destroyed our crops, but it deserves a fair trial and a competent lawyer to argue its case before God and the court.”
Modern human: “This dog bit someone. Put it down. It’s just a dog.”
Which society actually respected animals more?
Medieval courts gave rats lawyers because they operated in a system where rats could be held accountable.
We don’t give dogs lawyers before we euthanise them because we’ve decided they can’t be held accountable.
The protection meant for animals, “they can’t understand right from wrong”, became the justification to strip them of all agency, all rights, all legal standing.
So here’s the punchline: We stopped putting animals on trial when we decided they weren’t smart enough to be held responsible for their actions. And then we used that same logic to decide they weren’t worth protecting.
Medieval people gave weevils defence attorneys and let them negotiate land deals.
We put millions of animals in factory farms.
Which species is actually less intelligent? The one that dressed pigs in waistcoats for fair trials? Or the one that thinks intelligence determines worth?
Note: Surviving records of animal trials are uneven, and historians disagree on how literally medieval courts understood animal culpability. The cases cited here are drawn from documented court records and widely referenced historical analyses.
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