Snowball's Chance Read online

  And this was how things were, and how they stayed.

  And 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!

  IX

  DESPITE SNOWBALL’S REBOUND, TO THE BEAVERS, Filmont’s Betrayal, as well as the disboweling attempt, had demonstrated the flimsy values of the Pig Fair—and an inherent vulnerability. To Diso, Snowball looked weak, and with his many pursuits, over-extended. And Diso, seeing an opportunity to capitalize on this disadvantage, made a tactical reassessment. It was, after all, merely a matter of necessity that Diso had made any treaty with the Pig Fair. It had always been a compromise of the Beaver Code to make concessions to the nincompoops. And now was the time to return to that higher ideal, as had been put forth by Moses.

  It was in the cool comfort of the bunkers that the raven, slurping down one Limax maximus after another (evidently, this bird didn’t have to wait for the Lodestar to get his 1600 slugs), spoke eloquently on the subject of returning the village to Woodlands. Ponds everywhere. Of course, as favorable a circumstance as many of the Woodlands animals (especially the beavers) thought this would represent, it was equally well-established that this was a plan to which the pigs of the Pig Fair would not be disposed. And as there would be no cooperation on the part of the enemy (though the beavers couldn’t imagine that once the ponds were reinstated even the pigs wouldn’t be happier—as ponds really were the better way), a stratagem of intrigue was deployed.

  In his bitterness, Mr. Frederick had supplied the beavers not only with the plans for the Twin Mills that he had acquired from his former Labrador, Filmont, but the plans to the Jones House, which had been passed on by a disgruntled cleaning duck. Making his last kerosene collection from the unsuspecting pigs, Diso plotted his rise to power—and the assault that would bring it about. He had, at his disposal, many loyal soldiers. Even a rabbit or a frog could become angry.

  And they had.

  Especially with the opening of the fences between Foxwood, Pinchfield, and the Pig Fair, many of the Woodlands animals, like the beavers, had reassessed. Droves of Woodlands creatures had crossed over to the new territories now under the auspices of the Pig Fair—and some, with even greater ambitions, had gone to the Pig Fair itself. And of those Woodlands animals who remained, there had grown an even greater determination—be it to leave, or stay behind.

  Suffice it to say, whether they were steadfast dig-in-your-hoofers, or secret take-to-your-hooves-first-chance-you-getters, the Woodlands animals lived with the perpetual fear that they would die as a result of some bad policy the beavers had—in response to some bad policy the pigs had. The pigs, certainly now, possessed the resources to kill themselves a whole pile of frogs, toads, moles, rabbits, mice, rats, shrews, squirrels and deer—all of whom were more or less peaceful vegetarians who could usually be found sitting around. Easy targets. But even if the pigs did kill a bunch of vegetarians, that wouldn’t put an end to it, because they’d never get Diso, or any of the beavers. They were too well bunkered in—just as the pigs were too well protected by the dogs. (And besides, there were always more pigs and beavers.) Some of the Woodlands animals had the feeling the fair animals might also be living with the fear that the activities of their leaders would get them killed. Odd how it never got the leaders killed. It was always a rabbit or a duck (or for that matter, anything but a pig, goat, dog or beaver) who seemed to be taking the big chances. It was always, “more risk this,” “more risk that,” and “more bravery blah blah blah.” It seemed as if the only animals who weren’t militant, and didn’t want to kill anyone, were the animals who weren
’t in power—as well as being, coincidentally, the animals who were likely to get killed.

  That is, the only ones who didn’t want to commit murder might be murdered—funny, that.

  From kerosene technology, the beavers had expanded their military capabilities. They had learned how to disable dynamite—whether by pulling out the wick, or dampening the gunpowder with water. Through these methods, they had collected numerous sticks of the explosive—as the farmers Frederick and Pilkington had become wholly obsessed, in their final hours, with the destruction of beaver dams. The beaver sabotage had rather riled them. And as bent as the farmers had been on the destruction of the dams—they’d eventually succeeded. But not before the beavers had amassed a sizeable pile of gunpowder—for which they were eager to find a use. And now, the old colonialists gone, the new one, the Pig Fair, was all that remained.

  A pie shop had been opened in the heart of the Woodlands.

  Indeed, all the village was dotted with pie shops.

  But Diso, too, had infiltrated the village. Student beavers abounded. (And those professorial goat types were surprisingly unsuspicious.)

  And on this point of counter-attack, Moses, though he would assign no specific undertaking, was unrestrained in his invoking of the Ancient Beaver Code. Killing nincompoops, as he explained it, was not actually murder (which of course was expressly prohibited by the Code), but, to the contrary, an act of heroism that would guarantee one’s place on the Sugarcandy Lodestar (even if one slipped up once or twice on the pie thing). This information, added to the knowledge that dying for the Beaver Code also guaranteed a place on the Lodestar, left the beavers dizzy-headed—and they swam in the maniacal whirlpool of their own minds working out heroic scenarios.

  And … as the beavers ploughed through their cedar chips and grandiose schemes, there was, to impel them forward, that distant pulse—that Woodlands torment that must one day be ceased.

  I went to the animal show, where all of the animals go. Said a flea to a fly in a flue, “Oh fly, what shall I do?” Said the fly, “Let us flee!” Said the flea, “Let us fly!” So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

  Yes, the beavers assured their rabid-eyed followers (lost geese and porcupines who had found their way in beaver’s fervor), beyond the fleas in the blankets, beyond the mealy bugs in the flour, beyond the termites in the tool-shed, there are bigger things to come.

  X

  THERE WAS MONEY TO SPEND. THE ANIMALS had it—and for the first time in their lives, it seemed, a lot of it. And yet, there were also those nettlesome “bills,” and many were forced to resort to another mysterious new fiscal introduction called “credit,” which was understood dimly, if at all. (Every month—“rent,” “water,” “electricity,” and, for example, those funny little pills that prevented one from keeling over, fat and dead, or those funny little bottles of magic potion that protected one from premature loss of feathers.) On the up side, however, it was nice to have booties for one’s paws, and quaintly colored tail ribbons for special occasions. Several of the cows had always wanted waist-chains, and now they had them. Sexy, those, agreed the bulls. The ducks, who had long believed that the kazoo was the most melodic instrument, could now afford their own, and were often heard at their lessons. No Woodlands duck had a kazoo. (Only the voles could endow any redeeming musicality to the racket of the ducks, whom the voles saw as spiritual brothers—as, despite their affinity for honking and kazoos, the ducks, like the voles, tended to an unhurried and pacific disposition.)

  Also, whiskey, beer, and martinis, were popular ways to spend one’s money. Cigarettes, too, had grown, as of late, ever so fashionable.

  “It’s all about enjoying life,” Snowball would say.

  So, the newcomer animals did the laundry and changed the hay, while the old-time animals worked their three-day weeks in their heated and air-conditioned carnival shacks, and spent their four-day weekends doing, well, whatever they liked. They could smoke, drink, or dream. One might even travel, if so inclined, and so fit as to foray from one’s stall. And even were one not so inclined, or so fit, there was always the possibility of putting in another window.

  According to the Trotter, it was largely the annexing of the Foxwood and Pinchfield farms that allowed this higher standard of living. The lumber operation was quite lucrative, as was the strip-mining. The new quarry and toxic waste disposal sites also provided a steady income. As did the parking. Over 29% of Foxwood, and 38% of Pinchfield had been promptly paved over to supply parking for the growing number of visitors who arrived at the carnival with motor vehicles. (The pigs, several of whom possessed more than one vehicle, also required an expanded access to parking facilities.)

  For the most part, the animals who were left behind on Foxwood and Pinchfield made for a ready supply of laborers, valet parkers, security guards, outhouse cleaners, and groundskeepers. The franchise, Duncan Dognuts, had been introduced to provide the local work forces with the required nutrients. It was fortunate their needs were limited, as their disposable income, being equal to their skills, was also limited. Really, those animals were lucky to have jobs at all. Many, who were totally useless, didn’t.

  The pigs, naturally, could not allow any farming on the undeveloped portions of the two farms—because it had not been pre-approved. So the dogs were charged with keeping a constant eye on the animals that Frederick and Pilkington had deemed too worthless to relocate, as the freeloaders among them were always planting beds of carrots and radishes—heaven knows for what reason. A few of the more educated Foxwood and Pinchfield animals were permitted to take up permanent residence on Animal Fair—there was a cow with a knowledge of cheese-making, and a horse with an excellent background in military maneuvers, and several geese that could sort grain—but the unemployable undesirables … well, they were just left to whatever fate they had made for themselves. Although periodically called upon to dig out an old latrine or bury a carcass too festering to keep on display, for the most part, they were kept off in the various patches of weeds on the outskirts of the parking lots. Out of sight was really the best place for them anyway, as they were not much to look at—a few sheep who were forced to shear each other (with crude results), a gone-dry cow, a litter of snot-nosed puppies, a three-legged cat, et cetera.… After all, not everyone could have a tub. And from the way those wretched animals allowed themselves to smell, it was supposed, not everyone would want one.

  Few of the fair animals could even imagine life without hot showers.

  And yet, as easy as it was to find a hot shower, there did seem to be a few odd goings-on around the fair. The termites were proliferating at a rate beyond anything heretofore combated. And there were, too, the woodpecker holes, which seemed to be everywhere. Hobart the bull, upon a visit to the carnival, suggested they might be beaver holes—though that idea was quickly proven incorrect by the Trotter. As for the wild onions that had sprouted in the grass lawns—well, the animals just gazed at them, and ate at the stalks off-pawdedly, and burped, and passed gas, and wondered distantly about that unpleasant whiff of onion.

  And for all that, the warm sunny days still came—one after another. And the animals of Animal Fair went about their lives and labors.

  And it was on one sunny summer Tuesday, not especially anything exceptional, that the lives of the animals would be changed forever.…

  Their livelihoods, and even their existence, would be thrown into question—the future, so solid and impervious the day before, would become newly uncertain. It would be as if the comfortable days of the past had sought their own compensation—and where yesterday had been secure, tomorrow would be perilous.

  And indeed, all was imperiled, on that Tuesday.

  The ticket-takers had opened the gates of the park only a few minutes before … and the park visitors (each one a good, paying customer) sallied forth to the games, exhibits, or rides of their choice … and the park workers toted coffee and croissants to their places of occupation …

  And it hap
pened.

  The Ferris Wheel was one of the major attractions of the park. Placed at the top of the second hill of the fairgrounds, the massive structure whirled with surprising speed—and from high atop, there was a spectacular view of the Twin Mills on the next hill, and the village across the road. By the end of the day, the lines grew long, prohibitively so, but in the morning hour, anyone could meander up the short ramp, and, with his or her partner, occupy one of the dozen cabs on the wheel.

  And on this morning, a crowd of Woodlands rabbits, geese and squirrels had been the first to the Ferris Wheel. And with the woolen candy salesman calling out his wares, and the warmth of the sun cutting through the dissipating mist of dawn, the Ferris Wheel made its first slow revolution—and then began accelerating. A ferret, who had explained he had acrophobia, stood with the Ferris Wheel operator, a poodle named Arthur, who had retired from jumping through flaming hoops.

  “Higher, higher! Faster, faster!” chanted the ferret.

  And then, in a sudden slicing motion of the paw—it all began.

  It would later be argued as to whether the evil-doers had secured preplaced weaponry from a passing peanut cart, or had foiled the bloodhounds by dousing themselves and their arsenal in apple-wood oil, in order to mask any tell-tale odor. But regardless of the method that his treachery had taken, this ferret’s time had come.…

  He had drawn his blade, cut the throat of Arthur the poodle, and assumed the controls of the Ferris Wheel—and before anyone could understand what was happening (was it part of the ride?) the Ferris Wheel had accelerated to its top speed. Gears ground. Sparks flew. And two pairs of squirrels were dragging paper bags through the ironwork—up to the axle that held the wheel in place. And then, in a moment horrifyingly lucid, the squirrels doused themselves with some greasy liquid, and set themselves on fire. The bags exploded, and the Ferris Wheel was loosed—kicked from its moorings.