Snowball's Chance (9 page)

To this end, prairie dog and meerkat advisors were brought in to oversee the enlargement of the bunkers, and the active components of the kerosene bombs (kerosene and gunpowder) were stockpiled. The beavers,
whose extensive families attended to the dealings of these materials, did not benefit from the trade. This was made abundantly clear on the Woodlands, megaphone-format news broadcast,
Beaveada
—“Beavers do not benefit from the kerosene trade.” The beavers simply lived in better conditions than the other Woodlands animals, and ate better food, and had resources to throw around. This, fortunately, as it was always a comfort to think that if one found oneself starving to death, there was at least a chance that some plump shining beaver, rigorous in the support of Woodlands followers of the Ancient Beaver way, might come along and drop a sack of meal somewhere nearby, into which, there was also the possibility, one might burrow one’s snout, if one was quick, before such sack was entirely emptied.…

For, by and large, assets being so limited, the average Woodlands animals didn’t have much to show for the Pig Farm disbursements. In truth, being the ones who had to actually implement the kerosene anti-trap units, the Woodlands animals were working longer hours than ever. And those anti-trap units were a dangerous business, besides. Sometimes, following a faulty or unexpected kerosene detonation, an animal entirely disappeared, leaving no more, for example, than an aroma of weasel. Diso, on
Beaveada
, praised the soldiers their heroics.

Still, it was only natural that questions arose, albeit in hushed undertones, as to whether this kerosene technology wasn’t actually some breach of the hallowed Beaver Code. Diso, firm on this point, issued assurances that any defensive act (namely, springing a potentially murderous spring-trap) was in no way at odds with the code. And
to assuage not only the theological fears of the doubters (or “ye of no faith”) but the more definite fears of those who risked self-annihilation, incineration, laceration, indentation, or the more general truncation, which might, or might not, be facilitated by amputation, Diso alluded to the 1600 virgin saplings which awaited believers—especially those who died for the right reasons, such as setting off spring-traps. (Those uninspired by talk of a Lodestar undulating with virgin birch saplings were assured of 1600 fresh caterpillars, or 1600 blackberry bushes, or 1600 fly maggots or earwig eggs—according to one’s palate.)

So, some believed, some believed fervently, some didn’t believe, and some didn’t believe fervently, but for the most part, the Woodlands animals couldn’t be bothered with belief—instead, they just did what they were told. Diso and his officers were not too tolerant of anything else. Hesitation. Dissent. When, trodding along the happy trail, one encountered some disemboweled water vole trailing ten feet of intestines from an eight-foot tree—well, there was someone who bothered to believe.

And so, as for the ongoing war against Foxwood and Pinchfield, while the beavers felt better spiritually and intellectually equipped for victory, the Woodlands animals felt better motivated for it. To the Woodlands animals, victory meant conclusion—and, unlike defeat, a conclusion that put an end to the dreaded fur traps, and all the horrors those traps engendered. Lest anyone forget who was to blame for the woes of the Woodlands animals,
Beaveada
was continually publicizing reports of mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who had twisted off their own limbs to escape the steel jaws of doom. Equally
tragic, if not more so, were the tales of the other pitiable unfortunates, who, preferring to end their agony, made no attempt at escape—and rather, in excruciating pain, just waited for their human executioners to arrive. Sometimes, they waited a week.

As inflamed as the beavers were already, it was with his typical inflammatory rhetoric that Moses enlightened the beavers on how well the animals on the Pig Farm were living—without a single one of them even believing in the Sugarcandy Lodestar! Though perhaps luxurious to the other Woodlands animals, the lifestyle of the beavers, in comparison to the pigs, was one of bare subsistence. Despite the garden salads, roasted nuts and freshly pressed beet-juice, the beavers believed that life was essentially hard—and only to be relieved, upon death, by an ascent to that sweet Lodestar in the sky.

But while the beavers were in the woods abstaining (no pie) so that they might in the afterlife attain glory, the farm animals were enjoying hot baths and electric heaters—without adhering to any code at all. The farm animals were hedonists who sat around passing gas. (Actually, the beavers were quite right, as any reckless dispersal, including one of methane, was a sure quantification of success to a pig.)

On the horizon, the beavers could see the Twin Mills, towering above all the surrounding area. There they were—the Twin Mills, in ceaseless relief, in ceaseless reminder. The beavers could not look away. The Twin Mills—the object not only of their own wealth, but of their own oppression. They stared—envious and self-righteous, enraged and determined.

Over the next few months, many of the moles, mice,
squirrels, rabbits, frogs, and other Woodlands animals (who weren’t nearly so unwavering or resentful) abandoned the Woodlands in favor of emigrating—to join the farm. The Pig Farm. It seemed that the notion of starting anew, in a heated stall, could be overwhelming. It was common knowledge that the Pig Farm animals were fat, lazy and spoiled—and to compound this with the idea that, on the Pig Farm, one could succeed by hard work … it was just too much for the common mole to resist. (
I already work hard
, such a mole would think,
and I can certainly work harder than an animal who’s fat, lazy and spoiled
.) In the Woodlands, it was often said of the Pig Farm animals that they were so brainless and inept that they could chew off three legs—and still be caught in the trap. And thus, families were gathered up, cheeks were packed with seeds and acorns, and muffled oaths of “no more digging” were made.

And the Woodlands animals who remained behind would just squat on the big rock and stare at the Twin Mills—towering over the village. And, so squatting, so staring, the Woodlands creatures would either grow more resentful, and ardent about the beaver’s way, or more committed to migrating to that better land.

The beavers, too, squatted and watched. Often, up on the big rock, they were joined by Moses, who expounded passionately on the subject of the Epoch of the Beaver, and recalled to the beavers their sacred ways. To die for the cause of the Ancient Beaver Code, said Moses with a tremulous caw, would send an animal straight to the Sugarcandy Lodestar—that oasis of light in the night sky, where days were as carefree as the days of pups, and fruit was always in season, and honeybees had no stingers.

Under the guidance of Moses, the beavers were becoming more devout—their beaver pride balanced only by their anger. The animals on the Pig Farm were now walking on two legs. The beavers, so staunch in their beaver ways, were incensed. Two legs bad, four legs good, Moses had told them—and everyone knew besides, that this was an ancient truth of all animals.

Soon after, the birds of the Woodlands, so as to be walking on all fours, were forced to volunteer to drag their wingtips when they walked.

ANIMAL FARM WAS BUILDING A CARNIVAL—a showcase of electric lights, edifying spectacles, and delights to the senses. As effortlessly as the locality had watched the Twin Mills erected, the theme park was going up even easier—even faster. There was no denying it now—Animal Farm was a runaway success. Not only did it have one of the highest standards of living for any farm, it was a farm that promised freedom—and, moreover, with the carnival under way, a thousand opportunities. Clear-cutting the Woodlands for lumber and land—pumping black smoke into the air from the electrical plant that was motored by the Twin Mills—there was industry in the air!

And it was attracting new animals like bees to honey!

There were moles, voles, hedgehog, shrews, mice, rats, squirrels, weasels, rabbits, porcupines, foxes, toads, frogs, lizards, snakes, pigeons, ducks, geese, and the badgers, who, an extremely boisterous lot, were liked by all, except the voles, whose introverted personalities left them at odds with the grub-eating extroverts, whom they considered brusque, loud and foolish. Of course, there were many other types of animals, and there were many other types of feuds and rivalries—some rooted in past grievances, some utterly new. And just as there were
animals that were popular, the gregarious badgers, for example, there were animals that were unpopular, such as the rats. No matter how often the
Trotter
described the farm’s vermin residents as upfront, thorough, and absolutely indispensable to the general clean-up and presentability of the park, the
Rattus rattus
community could not shake a reputation for being dirty and shiftless.

As for specific animosities, the cows and horses had it in for the snakes. (After that trampling incident in the barn, which had, accidental as it was, nearly cost one innocent snake his life, the hard feelings directed at the snakes by the cows and horses turned mutual—and the snakes directed those feelings back.) The chickens could not forgive the foxes the offenses of their fathers—much as the rabbits could not forgive the dogs the offenses of theirs. For reasons all too obvious, nobody wanted to have much to do with the porcupines, who were likable enough creatures, if you got to know them, but still, not the kind of friend you wanted to cuddle up with. The bats, who worked the night shifts, weren’t too well-regarded either. The beavers, as well, raised a few ears, as private, even standoffish, as those long-toothed creatures were.

Some, as a rule, viewed the newcomers as a shady and angry lot—while others strongly disagreed. The pigs had little to contribute to this debate—they merely reiterated in their regular press releases that, as was continually evidenced by their appointments to official positions, they embraced animal diversity. Nevertheless, it did seem to be an accepted fact that there was a tendency for newcomers to be unfamiliar with the ways of the farm. Although this was only to be expected, many of the farm animals no longer remembered how difficult it had been
for them, when they were learning how to walk and wear clothing. (Occasionally, one heard a meanspirited joke about the “dumbcomers,” such as—
why don’t dumbcomers take work-breaks that last longer than fifteen minutes? Because they don’t want to get retrained
.)

But, regardless of obstacles, the newcomers did learn to walk and wear clothing—and after a time, they became as accustomed to it as anyone else. And whatever an animal said, it could not be denied that, for the most part, the newcomers consisted of hard-workers. Indeed, most of them had come to work, specifically, at those jobs the original farm animals would no longer perform. Empty and sanitize the human bathrooms, clean the windows of the big barn.… It was difficult not to admire some of the newcomers, actually, for this work ethic, as many of them were far too educated to attend such tasks. What’s more, to live in those makeshift shacks on the marshy side of the field.…

Well … to live there, with no hot water or electricity, that was a determined lot.

Well … mostly.

There were the ostriches—the six eggs having been purchased from a local farmer who claimed that ostriches were too ornery to breed. It had been thought that such exotic animals would surely make an excellent exhibit for the carnival. But the ostriches, too dumb to understand they were free, were always trying to escape. A dog pack was assigned as an escort—not only to protect the farm’s investment, but to protect the ostriches from themselves (an ostrich on its own would be totally unable to attend such basic needs as health and shelter). On the open field, however, the ostriches regularly
broke away from their protectors—and easily outpaced them. What they thought they would accomplish by this truancy was an obscure matter, as, invariably, the birds would just run into the electric fence, where they would fall, unconscious, into the fringe of ostrich down that ringed the farm.

The charred birds were an ongoing unpleasantness.
There goes another stupid ostrich. Is he gonna run? Looks like he fell face first onto a griddle
. A discussion ensued in the
Trotter
as to whether the ostriches really were trying to get somewhere/do something, or they just liked the electric fence. It was sometimes postulated that this continuing barbeque was, among the ostriches, a contest of strength. Who could smack the fence hardest? Who could endure the volts longest?

After all the pigs had done for them! Those dumb ostriches!

To spare everyone the spectacle, the ostriches were moved off to a housing area on the outskirts of the farm. And as that area was enclosed with its own electric fence, there was no more of the nasty business—aside from the periodic thwpt, and subsequent thump of some 345 pound bird. Over the top of the fence, there would be a plume of sparks and feathers.

Those less forbearing among the pigs had been especially infuriated by the needless, senseless disgrace. Outspoken among the irate—Minimus. And by way of the Prize Pig’s wrath, which took the form of an editorial published in the
Trotter
, a resentment towards all new animals was promptly precipitated from the general population—as everybody already had his or her own hostilities toward the newcomers.

Some of the farm animals called for the expulsion, posthaste, of all newcomers. And yet, several of the newcomers were so loved that nobody, not even those who called for immediate action, could bear to see them go. How could anyone say good-bye to Emerald the counting donkey, or her son, Kip? Besides, many of the newcomers, like Emerald, had special abilities, while others were performing labors that nobody else would perform. In rebuttal, naysayers among the original animals argued that no job held by a newcomer couldn’t be filled by one of their own, and that as for special abilities—those could be taught to the original animals who wanted to learn them.