IF, BY COTSWOLD’S FAILED DISBOWELING attempt, there was any question as to Snowball’s authority, that question was soon answered. Under Pinkeye’s wise and free hoof, Snowball had successfully concluded his campaign to oust the Pilkingtons from Foxwood, and the Fredericks from Pinchfield. (With the proceeds from another bank loan, a second law firm had been retained to assist the first.) The victory was the most celebrated in all the history of Animal Farm. It was hammers, saws and wire-clippers on the old fences that partitioned the three farms—and The Freedom Shuffle all night long.
One of the pigs put a phonograph into service—and the animals drank and caroused until dawn. Many of the pigs became so drunk that they disrobed and frolicked in a mud simulated from chocolate and almond paste. The pigs thus revealed in their undergarments, it was noted by one of the badgers that a good number of them had grown so fat so as to have no legs—just feet! The pigs were enormously gratified by the observation—and as happy as all the animals were in this fresh new world, it appeared the pigs were even happier! In a spontaneous honoring of farm triumph, it was decreed that all animals should have a regular portion of milk and apples. The pigs, meanwhile, were heard whispering excitedly about some foodstuffs called caviar and cognac—brain food, evidently, that was especially beneficial to a pig.
And perhaps owing to such beneficial brain food as this, the pigs were so very duty-conscious that not for a single night did they leave the two farmhouses derelict. Indeed, it was well before dawn—with the celebration still in full swing—that the first pigs harnessed the horses to cart their belongings to the abandoned residences.
At odds with this dignified duty-doing, however, was the swine rush on the good rooms—and the angry squeal of one pig against another. And no matter how out of the ordinary that behavior might be … well, for some inexplicable reason, an animal drinking whiskey couldn’t help but think it was funny—downright hysterical—and even the dogs were inspired to dance and drink for another three hours!
But of course, as it was explained at the Sunday Meeting, the animals had been wrong to laugh at such a serious problem. The pigs needed more space, urgently, and this was a matter that required immediate address. Soon comprehending the grave injustice suffered by the pigs, the animals approved a full remodeling of the Jones House, as well as the houses of Frederick and Pilkington. The basements would be finished, and rooms, toilets, and kitchens would be added. As the swine had troubling “hoofing it” (no legs, just feet), it was also deemed necessary to budget a motor vehicle for every pig—that he or she might drive from one farmhouse to another. (The distances, respectively, were two and three miles—not, as had been previously thought, ⅓ of a mile, and ½ of a mile. The Frederick and Pinchfield Houses only appeared nearby, due to something called an “optical illusion.”) Also, six Japanese dogs (Shih-tzus) trained in the art of massage (shiatsu) were taken on to help the pigs relieve any stress that they might be suffering as a result of the relocation—two dogs for each house.
As Prize Pig, Pinkeye took over the master wing of the Pink House—that is, the Jones House, which, fully renovated, had been renamed. (Nobody knew where Snowball took up residence, but it was rumored to be even better than the Pink House, which was itself rather regal.) The various other pigs were assigned to their various other refurbished accommodations and offices—though none of the animals could quite decipher who was elected versus who was appointed versus who was a private citizen, or when who was elected, appointed or privatized, or for how long. But no matter, the services of the pigs meant everything to the fair. And lucky thing, the pigs seemed to be everywhere on it—occupying not only the Pink House, but the Rose House (formerly the Frederick House), and the Salmon House (formerly the Pilkington House), and at least two dozen other sundry shacks and barns that had been redesigned, redesignated, or simply reclaimed in the name of efficiency.
Lastly, before the contractors and sub-contractors went on their merry ways, three huts were built, which at first were believed to be smokehouses, but were later identified as something called “saunas.” They were assumed to be some sort of outdoor showers, and the animals appreciated the great sacrifice of the pigs—in that they did not have indoor showers, as did the other animals on Animal Farm. But a few of the animals were not so convinced that the saunas were outdoor showers. They thought the saunas must be an odder business, as, in winter, the pigs were seen just outside the saunas, rolling around in the snow—without their towels. Also, the humans called “investors” participated in this activity. Something agreeable only to the pink-skinned, no doubt.
Still, the pigs were happy, as after their tours and “saunas” (whatever those were) the human “investors” (whatever those were) were unusually contented. And if it was true, as it was supposed, that the investors had something to do with financing Animal Fair, there was every reason to be contented—because the construction was coming along well. Exceedingly well.
With all the new tools fashioned by the goats, The Daily Trotter assessed that a summer opening date was not an unreasonable expectation. To meet this objective, the only compromise that had to be made was in safety procedures—and consequently, two dogs and a duck were killed in a cement mixing accident. Well, actually, as the Trotter later clarified, the safety procedures hadn’t really been compromised—as the accident couldn’t have been foreseen, not even by a goat. Who could ever have known that the rooster driving the cement truck couldn’t see over the dashboard?
Occasionally, a cow, or badger, or some sophisticated goose was overheard saying that Minimus’s exit hadn’t been an altogether good thing, that he had served as a kind of coagulant to the bloodstream of Animal Farm—and that without him, the farm was bleeding to death. Not many understood this argument literally—too many big words and confusing concepts—but they understood the basic idea. Things did seem to be moving a tad fast.
Maybe, suggested a few of the animals, this would be a good time to think about some of the suffering of animals in “the village out there.” They obviously could use the help—a few of the rats and pigeons were even telling stories of village animals who were starving to death.…
After a brief interruption of hot water, apparently caused by several rats and pigeons who were nesting in the generator (they were put on sewer duty), the animals-of-the-village concerns were allayed by The Daily Trotter. A four-week cycle of scholarly articles led one to conclude for oneself (whether one read the series in totem, or in part, or even just perused the pictures) that in a village market, the best thing the animals of Animal Farm could possibly do for the village economy was worry about themselves. They’d do what they did best, while others did what they did best. And they’d all share. And that, even the most skeptical of the animals agreed, was a sound argument.
Live good—for the good of the village.
So, for several months, in a frame of mind that prided itself on a long hard day’s work, and sighed to itself with a long hot shower after that long hard day, the carnival progressed. And pleasantly enough.
“We’re all in this together,” Snowball would say.
And yet … that spring, just as the flower blossoms and the sun spoke of coming dewberries, the animals faced a heartbreaking episode—a more heartbreaking episode, nobody could recall.
One of the rats, an old English rat who worked for the pigs, reported that he had uncovered the traitor who had passed the blueprints of the Twin Mills to Mr. Frederick of the Pinchfield Farm. It was at the first Meeting in May, that fateful Sunday, that the accusations were leveled at Filmont the Labrador.
Brutus, who remained Top Dog under Pinkeye, laid out the irrefutable evidence that had been brought to him by the rat. But even so, the animals held their breath and uttered prayers to themselves—as they still fostered a hope that Filmont could explain the charge away. Filmont—whom the animals loved above all others! Filmont—who, no matter how far an animal could recite the alphabet, loved that animal back!
How could Filmont be guilty of such a betrayal?
But Filmont, faced by Brutus, had no tale of explanation. The slumping Labrador offered no resistance to the allegations as they were brought against him. Yes, he confessed, it was exactly that way. He had stolen the blueprints during the course of a follow-up examination in the laboratory of Thomas the goat—and then he had given them over. He had been desperate to free his love, Sandra-Marjorie the collie, from Mr. Pilkington. And upon hearing that Mr. Frederick was prepared to allow Bilby Pilkington to drown the puppies (the boy relished such tasks), the Labrador had seen no option but to make a deal with his former owner—a man who had nearly kicked him to death.
Filmont had always been a motivator—an animal that made labor go more easily. Moreover, he had been a facilitator in this labor of living—and the animals felt deeply betrayed. How could he have passed such “classified” material to the enemy? (“Classified,” a word new to most of the farm, was nevertheless a word that was being bandied around not a little in connection with this treachery.) Mr. Frederick was a man who liked cockfights—a man with a belly swelling with the meat of cow, sheep, pig, goat, and bird. And he was no man to be trusted with such sensitive information as the plans for the Twin Mills. Filmont’s arguments that he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone—that he had thought Mr. Frederick merely wanted to build a windmill of his own—were met with muzzles twisted in scorn and hatred.
Pinkeye immediately announced that all the pigs were in agreement—the Labrador would be drawn and quartered by the horses. This statement, however, was subsequently retracted. And two days later, at the Sunday State of the Farm Address, Snowball put forth a revised argument. (Someone asked if Sunday wasn’t supposed to be the day of the Meeting, but they were quickly silenced by a shepherd, as this was not the time for discussion.) Snowball argued that death was too good—that Filmont should be forced to live on as some kind of example. Perhaps he should be made an exhibit of the carnival—and spend his days on display, confessing his betrayal time and time again.
During the week, as the pigs and goats deliberated upon the fate of the Labrador, it was discovered that, despite Filmont’s agreement with the humans, in the days just prior to their eviction from Foxwood and Pinchfield, Bilby Pilkington had been permitted to drown Filmont’s puppies anyway—just because he wanted to. It was further revealed that Sandra-Marjorie the collie, mourning her whelps, had gone mad, and bitten Bilby on the cheek as he taunted her. Immediately thereafter, she had been led to the quarry and put down. Bilby had been allowed to employ his crossbow. Alongside the burlap sack of dead puppies, the bloodhounds found her there … in the standing water. The assumption was that Bilby had made the Animal Farm quarry his place of execution to ensure that Filmont the Labrador should find out what end had befallen his family.
And Filmont did find out.
Apprised of his collie and puppies on Friday, the Labrador was found dead in his stall on Saturday. He had been under the constant vigilance of three shepherds, so nobody knew how he had gotten the box of chocolates (fatal to canines). They only knew that in the morning he was dead, the box was empty, and the note he left behind spoke of his greatest sorrow—that he had never managed to dig under that fence, to see his collie Sandra-Marjorie one last time.
After Filmont’s death, it was realized that the dogs had never managed to establish how Filmont had been communicating with Mr. Frederick. By rat, by bird? Who was the courier? For weeks, there was talk of demoting the three bloodhound interrogators, who had failed to ask Filmont these crucial questions, to sheepdogs. But when it was realized that they had wanted to ask the questions, but had been thwarted by something called “animal rights”—well, those, as one might say, were thrown to the wolves.
As security was now an issue, just as the dogs, more than ever, followed orders from the pigs, so too, more than ever, did the animals follow orders from the dogs.
And what demanding work it was to maintain order! The dogs needed six meals a day just to sustain themselves! And a dog on six meals a day—that was a formidable beast! A beast that commanded attention—sort of a rude, not-too-quick pig, with fur.
And the carnival?
Yes, overwrought. Yes, overbudget. And yes, in spite of everything, on schedule—to be opened by summer’s end. Already, fifteen tradeshow shacks and the Ferris Wheel (which would be one of the main attractions of the park) were completed. In preparation for vending and ticket sales, the animals had been enrolled in a new class, “Money, paper and coin.” Students were instructed on denominations, addition and subtraction, and the sniff-test—which allowed even animals with the most rudimentary intelligence to identify counterfeit currency. All the animals, including those who had never been able to visually identify a genuine note from a fraudulent one, were easily able to master the olfactory method.
As opening night approached, pigeons were sent out into the village—to paint signs and billboards, to mount placards and banners, and to just generally coo and warble of the wonder of Animal Fair.
I’ll go to the Animal Fair—cast off my daily cares.
I’ll stuff my face with more than my share.
And drink ’till I dance with the bear.
The carnival gates were thrown wide on Midsummer’s night—the anniversary of the rebellion. The new flag was raised, an old rifle was fired from the foot of the flagstaff—and then, a tremendous neon sign was illuminated. For the first time ever, the blazing pink and green proclaimed—
ANIMAL FAIR
With this, Snowball announced from his soapbox that Animal Fair was open for business. Turnstiles turned. Electric lights were switched on—and in a unification of every dream of every animal everywhere, the night was turned to day. None could deny the power of the spectacle—thousands of lights burned the sky!
The very stars were dimmed by the magnificence of Animal Fair!
And the first night of the park’s operation was a night of fulfillment and gain. There were visitors enough—and they lined up to eat the food, play the games, and ride the rides. The Ferris Wheel was especially popular. Couples would embrace and look across the stream and the road—to the village. And then, depending on their species, they would knead each other’s withers, or rub bills, or mash lips.
True, towards the middle of the evening, about ten o’clock, there was a slight problem with the crepe stand, when it caught fire and collapsed. But, thanks to the prudent planning of the goats, the tradeshow shack was on the periphery of the park, and not neighbored closely by any other concessions. The dogs managed the situation capably enough, and the evening, yet young, had ample time to recover. By midnight, some of the pigs were even claiming that the fire was intentionally staged—a diversion from expectation. There had been something marvelous about it, they argued—and the animals couldn’t disagree with that, as, to watch a building burning, well … even if it was a little frightening, it was a marvel. And, as the pigs reminded them, nobody had been hurt.
The fireworks display at closing time was the most spectacular anyone had ever seen. Few among those present had ever seen a fireworks display before, but even so, all agreed, this display, as far as fireworks displays went, must have ranked awfully high. There was a small, accidental conflagration on the dock in the pond, but again, to the hoots of spectators, it was attended, in good order, by the dogs. (Coincidentally, several of the wharf rats who worked the docks were reported missing. Interviews were made, leads were pursued, and the rats were found. They were quite safely lodged downstream, it was reported in the Trotter, where they had taken up permanent residence.)
With the closing of the park, it went around that the evening had been so lucrative that the pigs predicted the bank loans would be paid off earlier than had been projected. This, in consequence, would somehow save the fair a good deal of money in something called “interest.” (“Well,” joked a goose, “I think it’s more confusing than interesting!”) Regardless, all enjoyed the after-hours festivities, and every animal was apportioned a pint of beer—and where each pig would customarily receive a pint, tonight, each pig received a half-gallon. All toasted to the pigs—and their powerful thirst! (The goats, not interested in beer, drank something called “martinis.”)
And ahhhh, what a wonderful night!
And ahhhh, the splendors of the chicken fight! And the bliss of a dog-tired stupor!
The scamper of pigs’ feet carried forth from the Jones House until 10 AM the next morning, when the park reopened. Food delivery services had been arriving at a rate of four an hour since one o’clock the night before. The ducks, who cleaned house for the pigs, reported a scene that included fifteen pigs sleeping in a hot-tub full of tapioca pudding, and two pigs still battling it out in a test-of-the-wills chip-eating challenge. (It was definitely not, the pigs would later insist, dispelling an unsubstantiated rumor, a pork rind challenge.) At noon, the last delivery boy arrived, with two gallons of guacamole. Only Emerald the counting donkey could give any adequate account of what guacamole was. Few of the animals had ever heard of an avocado.
Notwithstanding the animals’ lack of familiarity with the green fruit, or vegetable, with a large pit, they had been introduced to an unimaginable variety of food—a variety of such magnitude that it would have once been thought impossible. Besides the fried bananas and cheese fries, there were candy-covered apples, red-hot fireballs, and numerous other delectables, such as chocolate-coated crickets, ants, and dung beetles.
For weeks, it was privately debated among the pigs and goats whether or not Animal Fair should serve meat-goods. And in the end, after a struggle of conscience, which all the animals deeply appreciated, Snowball announced the compromise that had been made.
It would be permissible to sell beef, pork, mutton, goat, and fowl, as long as the flesh was not obtained from Animal Fair cows, pigs, sheep, goats, or birds. Furthermore, in keeping with the principles of Animal Fair, even if the park animals did sell meat products, they would not be allowed to eat it themselves (although the pigs noted with good humor that preventing one or two of the dogs from getting into it, on occasion, might prove an impossibility). Any meat product, stressed the pigs, would only come from the butcher—and never from the fair.
In the hard years of the past, the butcher had helped the fair by purchasing the hides and flesh of patriots, who at the time of their natural deaths had chosen to make, entirely voluntarily, that ultimate sacrifice. (Of course, this act of dedication was deemed no longer required, and the butcher would, henceforth, merely act as an undertaker, and surgeon, to the Animal Fair animals.) And after several minutes of the sheep shouting, “The butcher, only from the butcher!” the pigs further amended that no juvenile animals would be served—nor would any item be served that had been obtained through the torture or discomfort of an animal. (The butcher had agreed to provide meat derived solely from animals, not-from-Animal-Fair animals, who had died of natural causes—such as old age, illness, or unavoidable accident.) There would be no baby back ribs, said the pigs—and no veal, or pullets, or “foie gras.”
And here, an odd thing happened, as despite the fact that none of the other animals, except perhaps the goats, knew what foie gras was, the pigs repeatedly stressed that foie gras had been disallowed. In a display wholly uncharacteristic of the porcine disposition (actually, the display was far more characteristic of the sheep, who, unlike the pigs, were not known for their gray matter), they chanted “foie gras” for close to five minutes—during which time they watered, mightily, at the mouth. In the days after this odd demonstration, it required The Daily Trotter to explain to the animals that the mention of foie gras, whatever it was, had not thrown the pigs into a frenzy, and that they had not been salivating for appetite, but for a dedication to Animal Fair, and the rules that would govern it.
And with every day the park was open (and it was every day—seven days a week), the animals had a chance to appreciate their noble enterprise, and, in the process, to learn not only about themselves, but about all the other species that visited the park. Animal Fair welcomed all animals—the humans, as they were also animals, being heartily included in this invitation. Furless, perhaps, tailless, perhaps—but animals nevertheless.
Surprisingly enough, the humans were wholly enthusiastic about this inclusion. One of the most popular exhibits, indeed, was one that had originally been conceived as educational. Throughout the entire outlying area, the voices of men and women could always be heard emanating outwards from the “Animalism” tent.
“How d’you do Mr. Gnu?” I said to a gnu I knew.
And to you, you adoraboo ewe, and lovaboo Miss Emu, I doffed my caparoo.
And I waved to the shrews and the caribous riding bicycles built for two.
And a cow went “Moo,” and a cat went “Mew.”
And I said, “Toodle-doo, Mr. Kangaroo.” For I am an animal, too!
The humans—they sang the song of the animals, and they hurrahed. The animals had overcome the tyrant! They had cast off their chains! They were free! Free!
It was everybody’s dream!
Another exhibit that drew an unexpectedly large crowd was that of Martha-Lo the merry-go-round Pony, who was actually a second generation Animal Fair animal—although she was so otherworldly it was hard to imagine she originated from anywhere. Canary, a new magazine that focused on topical events in the village and on the fairgrounds, published a lovely biographical sketch of the “headliner.” Her raking-the-hay cover was quite controversial.
Martha-Lo was a bay pony with sunny highlights, who, though many of the other animals couldn’t see it, managed to convince a large proportion of the visitors to the park that she had “that certain something.” For the talent element of her performance, she recited the alphabet to the letter I, and handed out home-baked cookies. A few of her personal weasels resented her, in that without a glass of fresh-pressed beet juice and two sugar cubes to top off the hour, the show could not go on.
And there were other acts, too, that had their share of success—headliners such as Kissilvis the dancing bear, Brandovitz the unforgetting, unforgettable elephant, and Kokia Bobcat, who was awesome and sensual.
But over the coming months, many of the acts, which had risen to popularity, subsequently, fell in popularity—and so reduced, these acts, as they had come, went. And as hard as it was to say good-bye, it was realized that this was the natural course of acts in an amusement park. After an audience was exhausted by a given spectacle, it was only to be expected that the spectacle would move on to another venue—preferably, a far away venue, as nobody, not even the performers themselves, liked to remember an old act. And as for losing friends, the animals learned to make new friends—though it must be said, there was something a little lonely about having to explain one’s life all over again. So much so that, after a while, most animals didn’t bother anymore.
It was not, after all, a personal matter, but a professional matter. And more than anything else, it was the enormous ambition of such an undertaking as the park that made its impression on the animals. And it was as a result of this impression (Ambition! Ambition! Ambition!) mingled with the experience of these seemingly countless entertainers (whose itinerant life was hugely romantic) that a staggeringly high number of the park animals began to dimly suspect, and forthwith to discover (hooray!) that they had talents of their own. (Besides, with no friends around, why not travel?) Regular auditions were initiated by the pigs, and though very few of the animals were ever bestowed a tent of their own, there was the rare exception. A badger named Otto was given top billing by the Trotter. The headliner’s “I eat worms, dirt and rocks” stall was a favorite of pig and critic alike.
Some animals were so determined to raise their small talents to a point of headlining that, out of their own earnings, they hired pigs to become their trainers. And thus, it was at the urging of the animals themselves that many a boar strapped his whip back on.
There were other changes—most noticeably, a pit was dug out of the old pastureland, and the daily mounds of garbage were pitched into it. When it was filled to the top, the mass was burned down. The septic waste, from the outhouses available to the visitors of the park, was also added to this stew. Despite the grumblings of some of the animals, it was proven by the goats that this disposal system had nothing to do with the ground water problem. After two dead beavers were discovered in the pond (they had floated down from the Woodlands) and two chickens died from their daily glasses of reconstituted pineapple juice, the goats announced that a water tank was being brought in, and that from now on water would be purchased from a natural spring—and that the well water should not be used for anything but cleaning and bathing.
Having extended its borders, Animal Fair had to contend with the two new neighboring farms (to the east and, respectively, the west) of Haberdash and Dilldiddle. And it was soon discovered, by the tireless bloodhounds, that these new neighbors had been responsible for the contamination of the ground water. And while the contamination was inconvenient, the pigs were secure in their conviction that they could employ the situation to their own advantage in a pending lawsuit against the two enemies. (Luckily, the pigs had retained their lawyers from their previous lawsuit against their previous enemies.) It was hoped, with some good reason for hope, that these evil, wasteful regimes (these new evil, wasteful regimes) would soon be toppled. It was not long before many of the animals had entirely forgotten there had ever been a Foxwood or Pinchfield, and the age-old lawsuit was assumed to have always been against Haberdash and Dilldiddle. It was their defeat that would bring Animal Fair’s ultimate victory (as victorious as Animal Fair was already).
So, with this object in mind (more victory!) the animals worked hard, and the pigs and goats encouraged them to work even harder—it was a war of work, said Snowball. And moreover, hard work satisfied the individual objectives of many of the animals, who looked forward to better days for themselves—days when they wouldn’t have to work so hard.
And to the enormous satisfaction of the pigs, the bank loans were paid off early. And everyone knew that was good for the fair, whyever that might be. And the pigs, who had made friends with the bankers (they drank whiskey with banking “executives” on a regular basis, in a dedicated effort to keep up good relations), took out new loans, which was also excellent for the fair, whyever that might be.…
And things were going well—so well, actually, that it was suggested in The Daily Trotter that there was too much hard work, and too much ambition. The animals, who were all working seven days a week, were collecting far too much in wages, and were therefore driving up something called “inflation.” This meant, said the Trotter, that it was time for the animals to work less hard, and to have more ambitions about flying kites and playing croquet—and fewer about sequined mangers and pearl-studded bow ties. A new three-day workweek was legislated. But because the kite field and croquet course were closed to all but pigs and goats (only the pigs and goats could afford the prohibitive “member fee”) the animals were unable to fly kites, and play croquet, as had been suggested. A few of the animals took up something called “dice,” but mostly, the animals just stared out their windows for the four days a week they weren’t working.
And at first, as the fair animals were due for a little relaxation, that wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was terrific—even the voles said so. But after a few weeks, when everyone had rested up, it got to be a bore, and the animals spent the days they weren’t working looking forward to the days they were working. It was soon amended that an animal was permitted to work more than three days a week—but anything over three days would be considered entirely voluntary, and would warrant no extra benefits—food or otherwise. And without extra food to sustain extra work, most animals deemed such exertion gratuitous. They’d rather just look out their windows, and if they couldn’t actually fly a kite or play a round of croquet, just think about flying a kite or playing a round of croquet. Some held that the answer was beer, or if they could afford it, whiskey—both beverages being available in the park.
A few of the more ambitious animals, who were hoping to demonstrate themselves deserving of some managerial post, might take on an extra day here and there. But even they would tire of it. The best thing that could be said of the three-day workweek was that it allowed several fair animals to get fat—and that was, in a sense, a victory, as aside from the pigs, dogs and goats, there had not been a fat animal on the fairgrounds that anyone, not even Benjamin, could remember. And if you got fat, the three-day workweek wasn’t so bad anymore, as fat animals didn’t like to move much anyway.
The most major drawback of the three-day workweek was that the managerial positions, which had been coming fast and furious for some time, seemed suddenly … well, infrequent. It was as if, wedged behind their counters, everyone was stuck in one place. This misconception, however, was soon put to rest by Canary. Time and again, Canary recounted the stories behind the appointments—always a triumph over adversity. And the animals liked to hear that, because for all the good things about their lives, as they sat in front of their windows those four days a week, somehow, their lives did seem adverse—though by all means they did love Animal Fair, and appreciate it as the best place around for an animal, which it really was.
It might be supposed that all those long hours at the window thinking about Martha-Lo the Pony bred humiliation and envy. But as a science article in the Trotter had linked bitterness and resentment to failure, and failure to ongoing failure, few found that they themselves were anything but optimistic. (And also, maybe, a little tipsy from one of those martinis!)
Yes, perhaps on occasion tempers ran a little short. And yes, perhaps, there was that new pesky problem of the “criminanimals.” But, most assuredly, none of trouble resulted from anything akin to feelings of stagnation and aspiration unfulfilled. No siree, how could life be anything but a wonder, when one had a window?
Now collecting salaries, the animals were also paying bills—food, water, lodging, utilities and taxes (taxation, the most difficult concept to grasp, took up ⅓ to ½ of each class in the “Wage Earner” seminar). So, fortunately, as for the robberies and hold-ups, there was not really all that much to take.
This, combined with the fact that the crimes tended to be a bit on the silly side, let few of the animals, and certainly none of the pigs or the goats, take the problem too seriously. They had all seen crimes before—real crimes like Cotswold’s disboweling attempt, and Filmont’s betrayal of the dream. And as far as a couple of porcupines bungling the burglary of a jalapeno grasshopper stand, or the outrageous behavior of a sheep, a chicken, and a horse in a love triangle—it was laughable. Lowlife like that couldn’t recite the alphabet to the letter E.
Still, some discipline was called for, and any animal guilty of a crime was sentenced to perform in a sideshow. (Some animals actually seemed to commit crimes for the sole reason that they had no other recourse to become sideshow performers.) In the “Criminals of the Courtyard” exhibit, the guilty animal would confess his or her crime eighteen times a day (thrice an hour for six hours) while wearing no clothing at all, aside from a yellow hat with a bell at the top. The exhibit grew so popular, and profitable, that many held crime was not a problem at all—but merely a source for the sideshow. The pigs and dogs were unanimous on this point—the sins of a few depraved common frogs and pygmy shrews inspired more mirth than panic. A domestic squabble between a jack-hare and his doe? The torrid affair of a smooth newt and a warty newt, or a field mouse and a house mouse? A shoplifting goldfinch?!
Honestly, crimes like that—it was all too amusing!
But in the months to come, the crime got worse.
Probably, it was partly due to this, in addition to the water supply problem and the poor air quality (the garbage fires, every other day, lingered over the grounds in the form of a black cloud) that a large number of the animals began to leave the fair—deciding, perhaps, that it was time for a new start in the suburbs. (The pigs and goats, having bought up the countryside, were building housing developments.) Besides, the life of the fair animals, be they entertainers or just “carneys,” was a wandering, cast-your-bread-on-the-waters kind of life—and in a life like that, an urge to move on just had to be honored.
On the flip side, Animal Fair offered enormous opportunity, and there were always plenty of new animals coming in. (Everyone, from the original farm animals to the old-time newcomers, got in on the dumbcomer jokes—it was commonly suggested that flushing the punch bowl was a good way to ruin a dumbcomer party.) And the toxic water and brown air? Well, as the pigs said, that was a boon of crucial vitamins and minerals, and a terrific invigorant to the system.
“Ahhh,” sighed the pigs, who never left the fair, once they arrived, “breathe that rich dark air! Like good soil! I’ll tell you, nothing’s better! That’s the sweet smell of success!”
That notwithstanding, more and more of the original farm animals, coughing, departed. And then, more and more of the animals who replaced those original farm animals, also coughing, also departed. And so gradually, of Animal Fair, it could no longer be said that there was a local community.
But there was, as the pigs liked to put it, a village community.
From all over the village, animals came to try out their dreams. Daily, they came, sure that they had something to offer. And as difficult as it was to succeed (even in a free land like Animal Fair), every wave of immigrants arrived with the self-assurance that they were better—and could raise themselves from menial labor with greater ease and poise than had any immigrants preceding them. And in a carnival atmosphere, which thrived upon new blood, new energy, and the occasional new idea, there was nothing wrong with a little confidence. “Be independent,” the pigs would say to the newcomers in the orientation classes—
“You’re one of us, now.”
There were still, of course, familiar faces—Benjamin, Emerald, Kip, Temescula, and all the pigs and dogs. But even of these, many chose to work on the fairgrounds while making their homes elsewhere. A new sub-group of animals was created, called “commuters.” Hobart the bull joined this sub-class, purchasing an old dairy barn just down the road. Having taken out a bank loan of his own, Hobart and his family moved their ice-cream parlor to the dairy barn, the renovation of which Hobart completed, after much labor, with his young brother, Goober. Applying the lessons of the fair to the village, their business was extraordinarily successful.
Indeed, the lesson of Animal Fair promised such extraordinary success that it seemed all the village was joining the carnival!
And yet, on the fairgrounds, the crime got worse.
Considerably worse.
It was after the Jones House itself had suffered a break-in and two assaults that an announcement was made at one of the now sparsely attended Sunday Addresses.
The goats (in all their wisdom), at the behest of the pigs (in all their benevolence), had added two new Commandments. (There’d been some talk of making the restrictions upon meat-eating into Commandments, and this issue, it was also announced by the pigs, had been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. After careful study, the subject would henceforth be officially deemed not-quite-significant-enough to merit a Commandment. Honestly, if someone ate a shrimp now and again … well, why bother? So what they ate a shrimp? Or a lobster? Or a pheasant stuffed with raisins and apricots?)
On the tar wall, beside the poem, All Animals Eat Pie, the two new Commandments had been painted under the pre-existing commandment. Together, the Three Commandments read—
1. It’s entirely up to you.
2. But you better not steal.
3. And you better not hurt anyone.
These were excellent additions, undoubtedly—though in practice they seemed to mean that there was not much recreation to be had, anymore. The dogs, on constant patrol, were trained to respond to anything even remotely suspicious. And just hoofing-it around the park on a moonlit night seemed suspicious enough to the dogs. It ran contrary to reason—why would animals be wandering around, when they could be in their own stall, sitting in front of their own windows? (And nobody wanted trouble with the dogs, as conditions in the Criminals of the Courtyard exhibit had become, in every respect, objectionable.)
And where once, in such a circumstance, the youth might have offered reprieve, now, they offered none—as they’d all been sent off to school. And even of those who’d come back (many didn’t), nobody had the faintest notion what to say to them. (The youth, likewise, had no idea what to say to their parents.) One of the geese accidentally called her gosling, who had grown into a tall, egotistical gander, “a brainwashed stranger,” though she later claimed she had meant to say, “a well-polished ranger.” Mostly, the youngsters wanted to be left to their own devices, “to do their own thing,” which, by the estimation their parents, seemed to be breaking the two new Commandments. (You better not steal. You better not hurt anyone.) And no matter how many times, for example, the pullets were told there couldn’t be 200 dancing chickens at one fair, every one of them was sure that she would be the one, even if there were only one. Unhappily, the truth was that there hadn’t once been a headlining dancing chicken. (Neither, a tic-tac-toe chicken.) Young beasts, recently graduated from the village schools, loafed in their parents’ stalls and did nothing (usually in groups), convincing themselves that they would magically be appointed to positions of power—as this was a chance which, once given, they could surely manage. After all, if Temescula the chicken could do it … well then! Their parents must have been real idiots to have been outwitted by Temescula. It was something of a disgrace to be sired by the likes of shopkeepers and laborers—even if they were, over-all, fairly satiated shopkeepers and laborers.
To be blunt, the youths identified with anyone but their comfortable and not so distinguished parents. What was to admire? They were not rebels, and not emperors.
Still, everyone was comfortable—the stalls were lighted and air-conditioned, and the windows were clean and large, and the young would be young. And obviously, this was heaven on Earth (or the closest thing to heaven there was on Earth), and the parents wanted their young to be entertainers, too. Entertainers or leaders. And they loved and admired their mysterious, educated brood. And they thought that maybe the youth were right—they would become entertainers, or leaders. And progressively, the age that the young were sent away was lowered—as loving parents wanted to give their progeny every possible advantage.
And this was how things were, and how they stayed.
The following May, an announcement was made that Snowball would deliver a special speech at the Sunday Address. Pinkeye usually attended to such formalities—and through the week, Snowball’s speech was increasingly anticipated, as by Saturday (like every other Saturday), the animals had spent three days sitting in front of their cash registers in their tradeshow stands (peanuts, hot corn, ice cream, hot dogs) and three days staring out their window (drinking freshly brewed tea, and eating freshly bought cupcakes), hoping they wouldn’t be held-up, beat-up, or if they did something wrong and got captured by the shepherds, sent-up. (The criminanimal sideshow was upstream.) There were so many rules and regulations to protect an animal’s freedom—one just couldn’t keep track of it all! Respect the dogs. Respect the law. Respect the dogs. Respect the law.
“Many years ago,” announced Snowball, when the Sunday Address had come, “our founding fathers sowed the seeds of our society—and now we have reaped the yields. Yields of fortunes, and hopes bedazzling. They foresaw a day when animals would work a three-day week, and all animals would have heated stalls. And now, we work three-day weeks, and have not only heated stalls—but air-conditioned stalls! And electricity! And hot and cold running water, and windows, and anything else that you, as the stall owner, might have chosen!”
“What we have chosen!” bleated the sheep.
“We live the dream!” Snowball’s fur-tipped ears shook with excitement—
“So now, we must dream more!”
“Dream more! More!” cried the sheep.
“The scope of what we can have is only limited by the scope of what we can want!”
Here, there were cheers and shouts all around.
“Way to tell ’em Snowball!”
“That’s right, Snowball!”
“Well said, Snowball!”
And Snowball was aglow—
“Ours is a good way of life! And a long way of life. No more is our time cut short by the barbarity of veal, and baby back ribs, and other such crimes against Animality!”
“Animality!” repeated the sheep.
“And not only do we live the length of our natural lives—we live those lives surrounded by our loving families! Our young are not sold out from under us! The chickens keep their eggs! The dogs keep their pups! Yes, all of us keep our offspring—who are educated at the finest institutes in the village!”
A cry went out for the offspring. The animals were proud.
“It’s true, Snowball! It’s true!” shouted Fleur the cow, who was especially bursting with love for her calf, Kirwin, who had the highest test scores in his class for two semesters in a row. The address was then momentarily disturbed, however, as Fleur, who had not seen Kirwin in eight months, suddenly fell on her side, overcome with emotion. When she was righted, Snowball concluded—
“We all serve ourselves. And we all serve the village. It has finally come to pass that the prosperity of one is the prosperity of the other! We all serve—by serving ourselves!”
“Ourselves! Ourselves! Ourselves!” interjected the sheep.
Snowball raised his cloven hoof for calm—
“The rebellion has delivered a hundred-fold more than it promised! And I declare, today, that we are all victorious rebels!”
Wings flapped—hooves met hooves in applause. And even Benjamin, the only one who could possibly remember anything about the rebellion, or what it had promised, was hee-hawing with a delight nobody had ever before seen him exhibit. He ee-ored and nuzzled his companion, Emerald, and her growing son, Kip, who had become almost a son to him. Emerald was seen to be looking around the room with a joy of her own—almost as if she were counting all the happy muzzles in the room.
Neither Benjamin nor Emerald had ever been looked to with such a warm respect—she and he, and Kip, they were the happy family. And Benjamin beamed with approval—these times were better, these times were betterer, these times were the betterest ever!
And, well then, nodded the animals, if Benjamin thought that the dream had been realized, it must have been so! Benjamin always knew—and nobody could fool a donkey! And the animals stretched their mouths into that shape they had recently been assigned in their classes. The hours of practice had been long and arduous—but now, the hard work was paying off.
Every animal nodded and looked to every other animal, who was also nodding (Yes! Yes! All together!) and pulling his or her mouth and snout into that shape. A smile. They were all smiling!