By Sarah Harbison, Beth Swanson and Yvette Lanier
The State News

A swine manager, a cheese-maker, an animal caretaker and a dishwasher.

Although at first glance these jobs might seem dissimilar, take a closer look at what the tasks involve: animal feces, putrid stenches and old, half-eaten food. One adjective to describe them all? Dirty.

Swine stimulator

Showering a few times after leaving a swine farm might seem expected.

Showering before entering a pigpen swarming with flies might seem unnecessary.

But visitors are required to wear the farm's clothing — both under- and outer-garments — before walking into MSU's Swine Teaching and Research Center. It's mandatory to protect the swine from infection.

Workers at the farm are accustomed to frequent showering and drying off with towels that — although freshly laundered — still smell like pigs. After all, most of them grew up on farms themselves. Their daily jobs include feeding the animals, performing artificial insemination, cleaning up after the pigs and conducting research.

Huge, almost pony-sized pigs fill the first section of the dimly lit farm, each in its own pen strewn with hay. Narrow aisles are paved for walking but must be frequently cleaned from animal waste.

The smell isn't for those with weak stomachs — it's hard-hitting and even nauseating.

"I started working here processing baby pigs and cleaning out the rooms as well," swine management freshman Heather Holmes said. "I don't dislike anything about the job. It probably smells, and the messes. … Well, we have to clean the manure in the aisles behind the pigs. But I like the whole animal scene. Hopefully, I'll start a hog farm up."

The swine farm also is open to class tours. On the day Holmes' introductory swine management course went to the farm, manager Alan Snedegar introduced them to artificial insemination. He began by showing the students semen under a microscope.

Unlike Snedegar, who first viewed semen in elementary school, most of the students had never seen it close-up before. Luckily, this particular semen was a prime example for first-timers.

"We got life galore," Snedegar said, adjusting the microscope. "We got good quality stuff."

Snedegar grew up on a farm in Rushville, Ind., and started maintaining swine at age 13. When he was young, a glass rod was used for conducting artificial insemination, which made the process somewhat difficult.

"We used to burn the top (of the rod) with a lighter to feel our way through the cervix," he said. "The best thing that ever happened was when they made this (rod with a spiral top). They made it more like nature intended."

Before inserting the rod, workers usually let a boar out of its pen to stimulate the sows, which can lead to nuzzling among the animals. One worker usually presses on the back of the female to mimic the boar's movement. When the female's ears stick up, the technique has worked.

Separate rooms in the farm are designated for pregnant sows, newly born pigs and 21-day old pigs. The last room, where five- to six-month-old pigs live, is called the "finish room."

"These pigs will enter the food chain within the next week," Snedegar said. "They may be the ham or bacon in your sandwich at McDonald's in a week's time.

"I'm a livestock person. This is a production deal — pigs are the biggest protein source for people. I'm not like animal welfare-type people who are trying to take 'em out of the food chain, who are trying to not raise animals for food. Not all of us like tofu."

Before the students left, Snedegar showed them how to extract sperm from a boar using his bare hands. During the process, he noted the tool used for gathering sperm was just a regular, commonly used utensil.

"This is the same thermos you probably use for coffee," he said. "It keeps (the sperm) heated so you don't shock the sperm cells."

Although this task may shock outsiders, it doesn't faze swine management workers and students. No matter the chore, they just have fun working with the animals.

"I enjoy what I'm doing every day," animal science senior Caleb Schaeffer said. "It's my family heritage to be a good stockman."

Cheese-maker

Because Lisa Calcagno has been making cheese at the MSU Dairy Plant since January, she's almost immune to the strong cheese and rotten-egg smell that permeates the processing room.

One smell she'll never get used to, though, is the stench of smoked cheddar.

"When we do the liquid-smoke flavoring to smoke cheese, I've shown up to a lab smelling like it," the biosystems engineering senior said. "It's gross. And if it gets underneath your gloves … ugh. Forget about it."

Calcagno and her co-workers spend about two days making cheeses such as cheddar and dagano — and the next three days cleaning. Every drain, vat and utensil used must be spotless before restarting the seven-hour cheese-making process. Vigorous scrubbing is essential after making ice cream that contains nuts.

"Cleaning drains is the worst," said 2006 graduate Emily Havens, who has worked at the Dairy Plant for three years. "There's chunks of cheese in there, and we have to clean it out. It's not my favorite part of the job. Cleaning is about 85 percent of what we do."

They also get a workout from lifting heavy, frozen gallons of ice cream, which sometimes can turn into a dangerous chore.

"I get a lot of bruises working here from lifting," Calcagno said. "I cut myself all the time and slit my fingers from the stainless steel.

"I got a black eye working here once. I was reaching up to grab a half gallon of ice cream, and it fell right below my eye and I got a big, black eye. I was worried I lost my sight. It was Cherry Amaretto Chip — I still won't touch that flavor."

In spite of the cuts and bruises, smells and constant cleaning, the lab coat- and hairnet-clad workers enjoy mixing ingredients and eating their finished products.

"This job hasn't turned me off of cheese," Calcagno said. "I hate cheese curds — I hate them. But I eat cheese all the time. I don't have a problem with it, which you would think is weird."

Pooper-scooper

Katt Kendrick never gets tired of cleaning up dog poop.

In fact, she doesn't mind wiping up animal vomit, either. If you ask her about her job as an animal caretaker, the 23-year-old will say it's the best one she has ever had.

During a typical night shift at the MSU Small Animal Clinic, Kendrick sat on her knees as she dipped a rag in a gray bucket. The stuffy ward smelled of wet dog and other animals. Squeezing water from the rag, she reached inside of the silver animal cage and wiped it down.

She also cleans the recovery ward — not a pleasant sight. When a dog wakes from recovery, it poops, she said. If the recovery is really bad, the walls will be sprayed with vomit. That's when she comes in.

When she tells people she's an animal caretaker, they usually don't know what to expect. She just tells them she deals with animals "and their crap."

"They're like, 'Well, that's a real shitty job,'" Kendrick said. "I say, 'Well you know, it's really rewarding in so many different ways.'"

For starters, she said, the pay is great, she doesn't need a degree, and she loves animals.

"I like animals more than I like people," Kendrick said.

But even with all the positives in the job, there are still some smelly sides to it. Sometimes the animals want to fight back.

Kendrick said cats are the worst, as she pointed to two pink scratch marks on her arms. Dogs aren't really that bad — well, except for the brown pit bull that attacked her after she turned her back on him, she said. But even with that incident, she's never been bitten.

When the animals are in the ward, they're like her babies.

"I enjoy the fact that I get the chance to make them comfortable, and I get to make sure they're taken care of when their owners are not here," she said.

But even with all the poop, vomit and animal "attacks," at the end of the day Kendrick looks forward to the next. She doesn't complain.

"It is the perfect job," she said.

Dishwasher

The dishes keep coming, and they pile up fast.

Filled with half-eaten pitas, gobs of ranch dressing and chicken tenders that seem untouched, the Landon cafeteria dish room constantly is a busy place.

But Anthony Alexsandrowski, a premedical junior and dishwasher for the West Circle dining halls, likes his job despite its messy appeal, because it's laid-back and not overly supervised.

"(The) dishroom is the best," Alexsandrowski said. "It gets you away from the bosses, and it's a lot less stressful because you don't have to work with the students upstairs."

But it can get sloppy in the dishroom. Alexsandrowski said one of his least favorite duties is to dig through students' plates and throw away bones, napkins and straws the garbage disposal can't handle — especially since some students like to mix chocolate cake and ice cream and make faces out of their food.

Work goes on while the trays continually lower down the conveyor belt, and the smell of half-eaten food accumulates. Alexsandrowski and his co-worker and general management sophomore Justin Quist keep on washing — even when the dishes filled with mushy bread and soggy peaches overflow with chocolate milk and juice dripping from the glass holders above.

Sometimes students aren't careful when putting their glasses on the conveyor belt and they fall and shatter around the dishwashers.

"We'll be sitting here and go, 'Hey, do you hear something clinking? … Wait a minute!' And then you dive," he said.

The worst dishwasher story was told by his supervisor, Alexsandrowski said. A student by the conveyor belt above was going to be sick and couldn't make it to the bathroom. The student ended up throwing up down the chute, and the vomit landed all over his supervisor.

Despite the horror stories, Alexsandrowski considers his move to the dishroom this semester a promotion. He has worked in the West Circle dining halls for two years now.

Quist said the job is what you make of it.

"I have some friends (that work here) and we start water fights," he said. "It's kind of gross, but I don't know — we make it fun."