In medieval Europe, justice wasn’t just for humans. From the 13th to the 18th century, animals—ranging from pigs and rats to locusts and caterpillars—were dragged into courtrooms, charged with crimes, and subjected to full legal proceedings. Yes, you read that right: a pig could be arrested, assigned a lawyer, and even sentenced to death for vandalizing a garden. This bizarre chapter of legal history proves that the phrase “animal rights” once had a very different meaning.
The most common defendants were pigs, likely because they roamed freely and occasionally caused chaos. In 1386, a sow in Falaise, France, was convicted of mauling a child. The pig was dressed in human clothes, publicly executed by hanging, and even billed for its own trial expenses. But pigs weren’t the only offenders. In 1522, rats in Autun, France, were put on trial for destroying barley crops. The court appointed them a defense lawyer, who argued that his clients deserved a “safe conduct” pass to leave the area before sentencing. The rats, perhaps unsurprisingly, failed to appear in court and were excommunicated—a medieval version of a restraining order.
Insects weren’t spared either. In 1587, weevils in St. Julien, France, faced charges for ravaging vineyards. Their lawyer claimed the weevils were “God’s creatures” with a divine right to eat crops. The case dragged on for years before being dismissed—possibly because the weevils’ legal team was more persistent than their clients.
So why put animals on trial? Medieval Europeans saw the world through a lens of religious and legal order. Crimes, even those committed by animals, were viewed as offenses against God and society. Animal trials were a way to restore cosmic balance, often involving rituals like excommunication or formal apologies. Some historians argue these trials were also practical: publicly punishing a “murderous” pig might deter other animals (or their owners) from bad behavior. Others suggest it was a way for communities to vent frustration during plagues or crop failures—blaming locusts instead of bad weather.
The trials followed strict legal protocols. Animals had the right to defense lawyers, witnesses were called, and evidence was presented. In one case, a rooster accused of laying an egg (a sign of witchcraft) was acquitted after witnesses confirmed it was, in fact, a hen. The process was so meticulous that some animals received better legal representation than many humans of the era.
By the 18th century, the practice faded as Enlightenment thinkers dismissed it as superstition. Yet its legacy lingers. In 1750, a donkey in Germany was charged with bestiality but acquitted after the court ruled it was the “victim” of human misconduct. The donkey’s “innocence” was sealed with a formal certificate—medieval Europe’s version of a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Today, the idea of prosecuting a beetle or sentencing a sheep to community service seems absurd. But these trials reveal a time when the line between human and animal culpability was blurrier than a monk’s midnight handwriting. They remind us that justice, however flawed, has always been a deeply human obsession—even when the defendant is a truffle-hunting pig with a taste for rebellion.
So next time your dog chews a shoe, be grateful you’re not living in 1400s Europe. Unless, of course, you’ve always wanted to see your goldfish stand trial for treason. Some rules are better left in the past—preferably alongside the concept of “rat excommunication.”
