Snowball's Chance Page 9

  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.