Snowball's Chance (11 page)

Snowball, the cheater of death, was alive!

Snowball, the dreamer of dreams, was alive!

Yes, alive!

Snowball and the dream!

The breeze picked up, shifted sharply, and standing atop the carnage, high above the animals of the farm, Snowball’s ears fluttered in the bluster! And on the current of air—the animals smelled death, and victory! And Snowball’s dogs salivated—for they knew they would soon roll in it.

And thus—so too did Minimus finally understand. There was no stopping this Snowball. This avalanche.

But who
, wondered Minimus,
had forewarned Snowball?

And then, in the brief instant that Minimus looked from Snowball to Brutus to Pinkeye, the old pig knew all.

Brutus and Pinkeye—his closest allies, so he had thought—they were giving him up to Snowball.

Minimus looked to his chief dog—
is it true?

Yes
, Brutus lowered his head in disclosure.
Yes
, he had turned on his Prize Pig.

Yes
, Brutus lowered his head, he had struggled with the question—what is loyalty? And he had decided, his loyalty was to the farm animals, as best as he could understand it. And as best he could understand it, their loyalty was to riches—their loyalty was to might. Their loyalty was to the conqueror and his gold. That was the future.

And so Minimus finally understood—Brutus had decided.

Snowball was the master of the farm, the master of the farm animals, and the master of the dogs.

And Minimus’s pig’s eyes sagged, the sequence of his expressions as if to say—

You, Pinkeye, even if I didn’t expect it, I understand—as you saw that your destiny lay with him. And you, Brutus—of course I should have known that your allegiance would rest upon the strongest haunches. But you were my faithful dog, and I never would have known—and I would rather have died than known
.

In a gesture of infinite forgiveness, and infinite anguish, Minimus extended his hoof to his former shepherd—

“Et tu, Bruté?”

And as Minimus looked into the gray eyes of his own monster, Snowball gave a haughty nod, and with an evil chuckle, the order—

“Jugular!”

And with that, whatever it meant, Minimus was set upon, and consumed by his own shepherds.

Once so strong, Minimus died gurgling and pitiable.

And all the animals saw the brightness of the future that Snowball had brought to them. And blinded by that whiteness, they hailed it.

“Snowball! Snowball! Snowball!”

And Minimus, right under their snouts, passed from this life, taking an era with him, and thinking, not of the pain in his limbs, not of the pain in his loins, but of how, maybe, it could have all been so different. The whisper of his final couplet went unheard—

The following Sunday Meeting, Pinkeye, in his inaugural address as the now and future and probably forever Prize Pig, assured all the populace that nothing like this would ever happen again, and that the pigs and dogs were entirely on top of things, and that nobody should worry their pretty little heads.

And that was definitely a relief, as everybody thought they had a pretty little head, and nobody liked to worry.

It was Pinkeye’s solemn promise that nothing would change—and that if there should be any change, it would be for the better.

The carnival would still be built—and it would be built at top speed. All the pigs were unified in their thinking—and certainly, there was no nefarious, self-destructive specter of gluttony. No, quite the opposite, pigs were known to be a generous and equitable species. And to suppose that any pig was motivated, for example, by wealth or power, was, frankly, beyond sanity.

A pig would never intentionally undermine another pig. A pig would never intentionally deceive or prevaricate—and a pig would never set out to accomplish any goal without anything but the well-being of Animal Farm at heart. (And this well-being was not just in the hearts of the public servant pigs, who everyone knew were beyond reproach, but all the pigs—be they leaders of policy, industry, or coming attractions.) True, conceded Pinkeye, there would be “bumps,” but never resulting from greed, or revenge, or political manipulations—no, not these. Rather, the exposure of any such “bump” (be it by a specially appointed prosecutor, or one of the
Trotter
’s many trusty reporters) would always be excited by the integrity, and the intention of maintaining the integrity of the
farm—and the initial cause of any such bump would always be discovered to be a misdirected impulse, loyalty, or sub-committee. Nobody at the top was ever really at fault—though there were often a few rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel. Or, rather, the bottom of the bottom of the barrel. Or, rather, the bottom of the bottom of the bottom of the barrel.…

So, speaking of bad apples—what happened to those animals involved in the disboweling attempt?

Well, as was uncovered in the
Trotter
, the lone conspirator was an orangish badger by the name of Cotswold.

Dispelling groundless rumors—Minimus was unequivocally cleared of any wrongdoing. And no, nobody had seen the shepherds attack Minimus, and no, he had not been reduced to dog-meat. Rather, the dogs were as restrained and obedient as ever, and Minimus, wanting to spend more time with his piglets, had retired with his sow to their country estate. The only animal with a memory reliable enough to confirm any of this was Benjamin, who now spent all his spare time with Emerald and her son Kip—and who had no inclination, as he said, to be interrupted with silly questions. That aside, even he must have known that his silence was perceived as verification of the official record. (Kip was home-schooled due to an irregular heartbeat.)

An embittered functionary who dreamt of being a dog, Cotswold had proceeded entirely on his own initiative. And accordingly, as nothing could compromise the judicious processes of the farm, would Cotswold have been held accountable—had not he himself been subsequently assassinated by one of the beer-cart bulls.

The matter so nicely resolved, the episode was quickly
looked on as, not a threat, but a reaffirmation of Animal Farm. It was not, after all, as if this kind of thing had ever happened before, or would ever happen again. And besides, as was so obviously in evidence, even when it did happen—well, justice was swift and inevitable.

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.