Look into the mind of an animal made mad by a wicked world. Oh, the pig looks well-adjusted with his sportsman's cap and his good-natured shirt. But then you get to the gun, and you pause.
No, it's not that the gun renders him something other than decent. No, no, that's not it.
It's that the gun underscores the pig's utter debasement. Understand: even among humans devoted to the barbecue, the pig is trusted with a weapon. Why, they've gone so far as to name the shooting competition after him! The thought that the pig might look on them with even a twinge of animosity, let alone vengeance or—heaven forfend—hatred, is as foreign to them as the speech of the Turk. His potential for violence so far outside any conception of the world they could ever entertain, they see him—even armed!—as their inferior, their slave.
The pig's sense of self, his fire, his heart, his soul—they've all been so stunted, so shamed and tamed, that he'd sooner turn the gun on himself than seek revenge.
And well they know it.
Addendum: This shooting contest is a part of the same annual barbecue festival we've discussed before.