Snowball's Chance (7 page)

The sad part of the construction was the accidental deaths of two animals. In the pouring of the concrete, one of the lambs had been lost. (He had been inadvertently nudged into the cement pit by a crowd of other sheep who were overly keen on watching the cement-pour up close.) The second loss, while no more tragic, was perhaps more acutely felt by the animals on the farm. Norma the cat had been electrocuted when her tail brushed a live wire. In respect for her sacrifice, the feline
was not sold to the glue factory. (The remains of the lamb were not recovered.) Each of the two fatalities was distinguished with the honor, Animal Hero, Second Class.

To honor all the animals that had, since the rebellion, fallen in the service of the farm, the old Napoleon Mill was renamed. Snowball, at the March re-dedication, spoke of Boxer, a horse whom all now remembered (though they did seem to have previously forgotten him temporarily) as a giant of an equine, both in stature and spirit, who had worked himself to death for his love of Animal Farm, and his dream of a windmill that might make a better world.

“Henceforth,” said Snowball, “the Napoleon Mill will be called—Dreamer’s Mill.”

This expressed, Filmont the Labrador became so excited that he started to chase his own tail—he just couldn’t help it. And Snowball, with a benevolent gruntle, not only forgave the spectacle, but encouraged all the animals on the farm to follow the lead of Filmont, Boxer, and even Napoleon—

“Dream the impossible dream.”

Concerning the completion of the Twin Mills, the only tinge of bitterness was that, following the inauguration, another Swiss goat had been brought in to initiate and oversee operations. (It would be nearly a year before any of that promised electricity and running water.) The outsider had been an associate of Thomas the goat—and as far as qualifications went, nobody could discern any, until the pigs printed a full-page biography, which differed pronouncedly from any rumored lack of qualifications. The position offered not only large rations and a room in the farmhouse (one needed to be well-fed and
well-rested for brain work) but the respect afforded such an animalage.

It was soon decided, however, that the management of both mills was much too much for any one animal to accomplish—and when it was announced that a second animal would be chosen from among the farm animals to fill the position, the grumbling about the appointment of the Swiss goat (who was very qualified) largely subsided. The following Sunday Meeting, a competition was held between all who wished to fill the newly mandated managerial post. Presentations were mounted, and when the pigs and goats retired to confer upon the merits of the candidates, it was unanimously agreed among the farm animals that a bull by the name of Hobart had carried the day.

From the perspective of your average animal-in-the-barn, the contestants had been wildly varying in organization and intelligence—the low point, it was thought, being the nonsensical diagram scratched in the dirt by a chicken who, since the day she’d forgotten her own name, had been known around the farm as Temescula. “Temescula,” she had decided, was a name so exotic she would never forget it. (This had turned out to be untrue, as Temescula regularly forgot she called herself Temescula. “What’s my name?” was her customary greeting.) Nobody liked to hear bigoted talk, but Temescula was what some animals would call a “chicken-head.”

With the decision of the pigs and goats that Temescula had been granted the post, there was an immediate reaction of confusion and even anger. But when Pinkeye explained that Temescula’s diagram had been utterly brilliant, the animals accepted the finding, as most of
them were bright enough to know they weren’t bright enough to recognize brilliance. (Besides that, Pinkeye’s manner had been so honeyed and earnest that no animal dared doubt him, lest they themselves be considered devious.) Even Hobart merely shrugged, and congratulated Temescula on her presentation.

The next day, the premiere issue of the Animal Farm weekly newspaper,
The Daily Trotter
, was distributed.

“Local Fowl Makes Good!” declared the headline.

Those animals who could read (and the pigs so wanted everyone to be able to read that enrollment in the literacy seminar was pushed up—fifty animals packed the classroom) were treated to a marvelously moving biography of the chicken who had, stubbornly, tirelessly, pursued several higher educational degrees through a prestigious mail-order university.

“She always says yes,” one of the pigs was quoted as saying—

“She’s a can-do bird!”

Temescula, via a spokesrabbit, requested ten hours a week of volunteer labor from each of the animals. Initially, added to the extensive responsibilities of spring and summer, this was toilsome indeed. But by September, after all the crops had been harvested and brought to market, the hours seemed more of a relief than a toil—as, aside from lend a paw to the implementation of the electricity generated by the new windmills, there was little diversion to be had. The work would be completed in January, it was hoped, and the heated stalls would go a good way to making the long winter short.

It was at the third meeting in October that Snowball put forth a plan to undertake, in the cool-weather lull, a
possible annexation of the neighboring farms, Foxwood and Pinchfield, through something called a “lawsuit.” When it was clarified that this was not another uncomfortable article of clothing, most of the animals seemed to think it was a good idea—as it required nothing of them.

But Minimus, who liked things the way they were, was not in agreement, and a debate ensued. Soon, said Minimus, they’d all have running water and electricity. Why get involved in the mania of the village? And even if they were to eventually get involved in the mania of the village, why not wait? With the Twin Mills, Animal Farm’s position would surely get stronger.

Snowball, in reply, portrayed the lawsuit as retribution for old wrongs done Animal Farm, by Foxwood and Pinchfield. Minimus, in turn, claimed that lawyers were nothing more than a huge expense, and that no good ever came of them. Furthermore, he argued that Foxwood and Pinchfield were in such disrepair, and their populations in such poor health and of such poor education, that any annexation of those farms could serve Animal Farm no advantage. The animals of Animal Farm, he said, would be better off improving their own circumstance.

Not to be silenced, Snowball asserted that Foxwood and Pinchfield had been severely weakened by the beaver attacks that had become regular occurrences at both farms, and that now was the time to advance, not retreat.

“The enemies of Animal Farm are defenseless!”

Snowball raised his hooves—

“We must overwhelm them with every available means!”

And it was with this argument, and the enthusiastic
cacophony of the animals in the barn, and the short bursts of bleat-bleating and oink-oinking from the goats and the pigs, that a strange look crossed Minimus’s face. It was as if, though of course he was Prize Pig, he realized he was Prize Pig no longer. And as would ever more become the case at Sunday Meeting, he grew silent, and surly.

The debate was reported at length in
The Daily Trotter
, where Minimus, in his sudden November turnaround, proclaimed that the concessions Snowball had made to his various concerns were more than enough to allay any fears. His faith in Snowball was complete—and every animal on the farm should feel exactly the same way. “Forward Ho!” proclaimed
The Daily Trotter
. In a letter-to-the-editor (penned by an excitable field mouse), it was suggested that the name Snowball was not forceful enough to capture the character of the visionary, and that perhaps “Snowstorm” would be more appropriate. The next week, Minimus showed up at the Sunday Meeting looking like he had sat on a fretful porcupine. The
Trotter
reported that he was suffering a case of constipation.…

And when the hot water and showers and bathtubs and lights and electric heaters and air-conditioners were turned on—on January 14
^th
—what a glorious day it was! What a glorious winter it was! And what a glorious spring it was! And what a hero Snowball was!

“TWO HUNDRED FRESH PIZZA BOXES!” EXCLAIMED one of the rats.

And sure as slop, this was a time of plenty!

The castoff of the pigs’ take-out food now littered every inch of the farm. It was almost impossible to look anywhere without seeing an empty bag of chips or a cookie box pushed into the ground. Also, as a residue of the human “experts” (plumbers and whatnot), there were beer cans and cigarettes everywhere. Additionally, due to the lack of suitable human potties (nobody wanted a human using their potty!), there were muddy mounds and yellow puddles wherever one stepped. The construction, too, had made its contribution—a lime pit, a scrap-heap mountain of rubber and plastic do-dads and broken bits, and, in the quarry, a pool of oil.

It was progress everywhere! said the pigs, to the cheers of the rats. It was civilization! And even a sheep was known to tip a beer bottle on end to drain those last delicious drops!

And all this, as the goats scientifically charted in
The Daily Trotter—
all this stinking blackness would enrich the soil, and make Animal Farm the most fertile farm in the land!

But really, there was no reason for that (enrichment, fertility) as there would be no crop come summer. It was not exactly that the animals were feeling lazy, or even sick—they were just feeling different. Maybe it was that now, in these good days, for the first time that any of them could remember, they were just enjoying the spring. Not even the pig overseers had ever before lain in the grass on a May afternoon, just to watch a beetle push a dung ball. So, simply stated, there was no farming, because there was no planting. Nobody seemed to want to plant, anymore.

Fortunately, Snowball and Thomas had introduced the pigs to the “sniff-test” for real money. And now confident in transactions of paper denominations, the pigs were enabled to hire out the Dreamer’s Mill. In this, the animals managed to do their part, as limited as it was. Grind some grain. Cut some logs. Much better than pulling ploughs, all granted. Besides, there were far too many animals to work the mill everyday—so the activities were more distracting than obligatory.

Work when you want to.…

Filmont the Labrador loved these slow, warm days. Having long since recovered from his injuries, Filmont had established himself as not only an adept student of the humanization classes (he walked and wore clothing quite smartly) but as an able worker, when there was work to be done. With his ever-willingness to lend a paw, and his boundless generosity, he had become, perhaps, the most popular animal on the farm. (Except for Snowball—oh, and Minimus, by all means, not to forget Minimus.) And in those languorous days of spring and summer, Filmont wandered from stall to stall—and
shared, with one animal and the next, long draughts from buckets of water, which he frequently flavored with a few drops of whiskey. And he and his hosts would talk of their loves and pains—and then, in graceful transition, the animals would sit back, and listen to Filmont as he dreamily reminisced of the places he had been when he was a pup.

Filmont had once been loved by a girl named Madeline Frederick (whom he had not seen in so long that he assumed she was dead) and she had brought him absolutely everywhere. He spoke of carnivals and fairgrounds. And even a circus that he had watched while sitting on the young lady’s lap—he’d been rolled up in her sweater. Bless her soul, he would sigh, those were the days—cotton candy and smoked sausage and turkeys roasted on skewers. “Oh, excuse me,” he’d apologize to any pig that might be in hearing distance, or bird who might take offense. But even so—entirely disregarding the meat—he described a place of leisurely distraction that eclipsed all of life’s miseries. And the animals, without so much as setting a hoof in such a paradise, did indeed experience a forgetting—a blissful release from their every woe.

Yes, there could be a light-hearted laugh! Yes, there could be a light-hearted land!

And when Filmont remembered the song that his Madeline had sung to him as she cradled him in her arms, well, it didn’t take long before he had howled himself hoarse and, in his stead, the other animals were taking up the old folk melody—some called it a spiritual—to harmonize as they sat around the campfire, roasting earthworms.

And as it turned out, Snowball too was listening—to Filmont and the animals. And Snowball too was learning—from Filmont and the animals. And it was in mid-June, the first item on the agenda of a Sunday Meeting, that Snowball proposed his own carnival, which, to the oohs and ahhs of half a dozen campfire regulars, he called, “Animal Fair.” (Several of the sheep, who immediately started out, “We went to the Animal Fair …” were quieted with a few sharp nips by a pair of shepherds who, perhaps, had been appointed to this very contingency.)

Snowball’s proposition was to open the farm—

“Open the farm to the village, as, when we erected our windmills, we opened the farm to the wind.”

“Our lives,” said Snowball, “will be easy. Our profits large—our expenses low. Where now there are trees—tomorrow, lights. Glowing electric lights like ten million fireflies. Animal Farm will become Animal Fair—a land where dreams come true. Hot baths, air-conditioning—have we not made our own dreams come true? We have! So now, let us help to make everyone else’s dream come true. It will be, not just an amusement park, but a wondrous demonstration of the pure spirit of the animal! We
will share with all the village—our own magic! And from it, we will feed not only our renown, but our stomachs, and the stomachs of our young—as our vision rewards us with every conceivable animal comfort!”