Roger Maxson

Pigs In Paradise

A Fairy Story Most Absurd

© 2021 Roger Maxson

COPYRIGHT

Title: Pigs in Paradise

Subtitle: a fairy most absurd

Author: Roger Maxson

First edition

Year of publication: 2021

ISBNs EPUB: 9788835429104 PRINT: 9788835429111

Publisher name: Tektime

Cover Design: Adam Hay Studio

Clauses

All rights reserved

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

Roger Maxson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

External content

Roger Maxson has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Additional clauses

The following are excerpted under fair use, “Nobody Loves Me but My Mother” by B. B. King; “If I had a Hammer” by Pete Seeger; “Danke Schoen” English lyrics by Milt Gabler; “I’m Henry the VIII, I Am” by P.P. Weston. Gospel songs in public domain or not copyrighted, “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy Down in my Heart,” “I’ll Fly Away,” and “Bringing in the Sheaves.” Lastly, hints of “Imagine” by John Lennon.

Regarding permission to use the lyrics to “We Shall Overcome” by Pete Seeger, et al., all reasonable efforts were made to contact the copyright holders. If, however, anyone who believes their copyright to be infringed is welcome to contact the author/publisher to remedy this issue. I consider the above song a gift.

For Chloe

What is wrong with inciting intense dislike of a religion if the activities or teachings of that religion are so outrageous, irrational or abusive of human rights that they deserve to be intensely disliked?

Rowan Atkinson

Preface

After spending nine years writing Pigs in Paradise, following four years of research, trepidation, and fear of failure, I decided to self-publish because I did not want to delay instant gratification and overnight success any longer. Another reason to self-publish was that I wanted to publish my book, the one I wrote.

Pigs in Paradise, a fairy story most absurd, is a political satire, literary and funny, too, says I. If the novel seems a little long, there is a reason for that. It is an exercise in freedom of expression, and freedom from religion, a critique of religion in politics, namely American evangelicalism. The idea for the novel started to take shape in 2007. Influenced by George Orwell’s Animal Farm, I found my mission, or it found me.

Being religious is a condition chosen for the individual born into one before a child has a choice or an option. I do not ridicule religious people, per se. I do unto religious leaders, though, as they do unto others, and have a good time doing it.

Someone’s religious label is chosen for the individual. Quite often, the religious label depends on where one is born. If someone is born in India, it is reasonable to assume that that person will be Hindu. Likewise, if someone is born in Pakistan, that person is fucked.

In the infidel West, there is a smorgasbord of religious choice. In the United States, there are Protestant persuasions, Baptist congregations from the north or south, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, and Episcopalians. There is a close cousin, the Catholic church, and let us not forget the Mormons of the Church of Latter-Day Saints of Jesus. Competition is good, and every stripe or persuasion hates the other. Today, a pressing issue runs through the archdiocese of the American Catholic Church. Bishops ponder whether the American Catholic president should be given communion because of his position on abortion. As if anyone cares what these pedophiles think. They have become old, worn-out, irrelevant, the way of all religions today.

Today, thank goodness, more “nones” are born than nuns or born agains. More “nones” in more non-religious households means hope, a promise of good things to come. As more of these young “nones” move up the ranks and into positions of political power, they’ll save the world from its course of self-destruction from guns, greed, climate change, a promise, and a prayer of a better life up yonder. Until that time, however, we have what we have and must do what we can to ward off the evil done by the religious or, rather, the ridiculous. I hope I have done my part, if only in a small way. What is a fairy story? Talking animals. What is absurd? Talking animals led to religion.

Roger Maxson

1
Out on Highway 61

On an Israeli farm on the Egyptian border, a Jersey cow gave birth to what appeared to be a red calf of biblical proportion. Muslims from the village that overlooked the Israeli farm shouted and pointed with a great deal of consternation. Several men held their heads while others wrung their hands and moaned and scurried back and forth. The call went out for afternoon prayers.

Meanwhile, on the Israeli side, there was a hush over the land, a collective breath was taken, followed by the rush of people as they flocked to the farm just south of Kerem Shalom to witness what possibly could be the miracle that would surely usher in the Messiah and with him the end of the world. Jews and Christians alike gathered around the property fence at their respective places, depending on who they were. And regardless of who they were, Christian or Jew, all were beside themselves with emotion.

One orthodox Jew jumped for joy. “We’re saved! The world is coming to an end,” he sang a little immodestly. He checked himself and his hat.

Stanley, the black Belgian stallion, trotted out of the barn. He wondered what was all the excitement about. He saw all the people gathering at the property fence, men and women, even children this time. “What’s all this?” he said. “If they think I’m going to put on another show, they’re mistaken.”

“Not here for you, Stanley,” said Praline, the leader of the Luzein breed. She and Molly tried to graze as their lambs nursed from them, both new mothers with Molly, the Border Leicester, the proud mother of twins.

“What the–whatever,” he said and trotted out to graze beneath the olive trees.

In the middle of the pasture, under the sun and God and heaven, the Jersey nursed her newborn calf. This was no ordinary calf, but truly a red calf that nursed from the teats of a mere Jersey. “It’s a miracle,” someone shouted. “Someone, call a rabbi.”

“Please, someone, anyone, call Rabbi Ratzinger to verify this miracle of birth.”

With all the attention being paid to Blaise’s newborn, she turned to Mel. “Mel, what is all this about? Why are all these people here and so much attention being given to Lizzy? I’m not comfortable with this, Mel. Mel, what does it all mean?”

Mel, the mule priest, assured Blaise, the Jersey cow, there was nothing to worry about. Her newborn calf was very special indeed. A gift from God, she’ll always treated as royalty. “For as long as your little heifer shall live, she’ll remain special and treated as such by Jewish and Christian peoples the world over, and all people the world over will one day come to know of and experience her presence.”

From the world over, media were arriving in droves to document the event, setting up camera equipment for what was going to be, once verified by a rabbi or committee thereof, the official announcement and declaration of the calf’s authenticity. Fox News from America was on the scene and ready to report live.

Julius, the resident parrot, along with the two ravens, Ezekiel and Dave, watched as the events unfolded from the shade of the great olive tree in the middle of the pasture. Molly and Praline grazed near the terraced slopes, with their newborn lambs staying close to their sides.

“I imagine Molly’s particularly hungry now that she’s providing for three,” said Billy St. Cyr, an Angora goat, to Billy Kidd, a lean brown and tan Boer goat.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” Billy Kidd replied as if he cared while gnawing at the yellow shrub grass.

“Julius,” Dave said, “what’s going on here? What is all this?”

“Allow me to explain as events unfold before our very eyes. I’m afraid you won’t believe this, but here goes. It’s a fairy story of the most absurd kind. The good news is we have three years before we have to pack for Armageddon. The bad news is we’ll have nowhere to go because Armageddon brings with it the end of the world as we know it. That’s the plan anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Ezekiel said. “What did he say?”

“Something about a fairy tale,” Dave told him.

“I like fairy tales.”

“I doubt very much you’ll like this one,” Dave said.

“Before we get to the happy-ending-of-life-as-we-know-it,” Julius continued, “we’ll first have to wait to see if she’s worthy of sacrificial blood-letting ritual sport. In the meantime, though, no one is to make that beast a burden. I wouldn’t tell Blaise, though, if I were you, the part about cutting the poor dear’s throat.”

Blaise removed her calf to the sanctuary of the barn, far from the madding crowds of onlookers.

When Rabbi Ratzinger and members of his congregation arrived, they were prepared this time, armed with umbrellas. Many thought this was a cautionary measure as protection from the sun. However, Julius and the ravens knew better. A member of the congregation held an umbrella over the rabbi when they entered the barn lot. Rabbi Ratzinger nodded, acknowledging Bruce, and stopped. He said, “You have made a great sacrifice for mankind and was given one chance to get it right. Thank you, Mr. Bull.” A member of his party whispered in the rabbi’s ear. “Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Steer. You did a very good thing before you did a very bad thing. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

The ravens had Julius. For everyone else, there was Rabbi Ratzinger.

As per the rabbi, “Be sure to give this calf the life of Riley. Do not put her under the yoke or she will no longer be worthy. Polish her nails. Give her a bed of down to rest her beautiful unblemished head and a field of clover. She must be protected and cared for. I will examine the young calf now, and in three years hence, I will return to examine her again. If at that time, she has remained unmolested and unblemished, she will truly be worthy of the purification rituals needed to pave the way for the Messiah. There shall be no three white, black, or brown hairs on this heifer’s body or tail. Remember, she has to remain a pure red calf for the purification rituals to work, so that we shall be deemed worthy to once again mount the stairs to the Holy Mount and enter the temple of the Holy of Holies. That is, of course, once we destroy the mosque and rebuild the holy temple.

“In three years, we shall find the boy pure of heart. We have him already, living in a bubble under glass, a boy pure of heart, unsoiled. There he shall remain a virgin. Not only that, but the boy shall not waste his seed on the ground. For when the boy is of age to defile himself, he’ll be fitted with a pair of gloves designed for the boy pure of heart to remain that way. At any time, the boy tries to defile himself, he shall receive a current of electricity as a sign from G-d, as though it were a lightning bolt. Do not fear, however, for our electrical shock is much less severe than G-d’s lightning bolt. Once the boy has completed his G-d-given mission of slitting the red calf’s throat, we shall throw him a great Bar Mitzvah.”

From the branches of the olive tree, Julius and the ravens wished that the rabbi and company were without those umbrellas.

The rabbi entered the barn, and the crowd held its collective breath. When he reappeared, the rabbi said that she was worthy for the three-year vigil, and the multitudes sighed, then cheered and applauded. Some fainted, while others cried with joy.

As he prepared to depart the feedlot, and thus quit the farm, Rabbi Ratzinger approached the former Simbrah bull. The rabbi once again said for all to hear, “He has made a great sacrifice, and has suffered greatly for the people of Israel, and all people of the humankind. Now, in three years, and without blemish, this red calf shall be sacrificed by the hand of the boy pure of heart when he cuts her throat and makes us worthy to rebuild the third temple that will usher in the Messiah and destroy all the earth so that we shall once again live as before as in a fairy tale of happily ever after.” As the crowd roared, some passed out due to all the excitement and heat.

“Now that makes perfectly good logical sense to me,” Julius said. “I couldn’t have repeated it better myself.”

Mel entered the barn and found Blaise with her newborn in the stall. “It is imperative that you understand that as long as your heifer lives, no harm will come to it.”

“Her,” Blaise said. “She is not an ‘it.’”

“Of course, I meant no disrespect, my dear,” Mel said. “She is not an ‘it,’ as you say. She is, however, the red calf, and thus, the new It-girl of the civilized world.”

2
A Road Runs Through It

The two ravens flew from the loft of the two-story cinder-block barn and alighted in the branches of the great olive tree in the middle of the pasture. The pasture was part of a 48-hectare moshav in Israel that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. Only a few kilometers south of Kerem Shalom, it was not far from the Rafal Border Crossing between the Gaza Strip and Egypt. The 48-hectare moshav, or 118-acre farm, stood like an oasis in the arid desert with olive and carob trees, lemon groves, brown-green pasture, and crops used as fodder for the livestock. In the pasture, pigs dotted the landscape, grazing on the brown-green grass, and lounged on the wet-clay banks of a pond fed by a system of underground aqua filters that supplied water to this and other surrounding moshavim.

Ezekiel and Dave were perched, hidden among the branches of the great olive tree. Ezekiel said, “On a day like today one can see forever.”

“Sandstone, as far as the eye can see,” Dave said and ruffled his shiny black feathers.

“Oh, look, a scorpion. Care for one?” Ezekiel said.

“No, thank you, I’ve eaten. Besides, I doubt the scorpion would care very much about being my afternoon meal.”

“You have such empathy for the lesser forms of creatures among us.”

“I can afford empathy when full,” Dave said. “When running on empty, not so much.”

“You’re always generous toward the farm animals.”

“Yes, well, empathy for the lesser creatures among us.”

While the domesticated farm animals, two breeds of sheep, goats, Jersey cow, and bay mare grazed in the pasture, others, mostly pigs, took refuge from the noonday sun, far from the madding herds, flocks, and gaggles, by lounging on the banks of the pond in relative peace. A road ran north and south, dividing the moshav in half, and on this side of the road, the Muslims from the nearby Egyptian village did not like the spectacle of filthy swine sunbathing.

Mel, the priestly mule, meandered along the fence line, careful to stay within earshot of two Orthodox Jews as they made their way through the moshav along the sandy road as they often did while on their daily walks. The road went parallel between the main pasture on one side and the dairy operation on the other.

“Jew, pig, what difference does it make?”

“Well, so long as they keep kosher.”

“Mark my word, one day those pigs will be our ruin.”

“Nonsense,” replied the one whose name was Levy.

“Of all places on the earth to raise pigs, Perelman chose here with Egypt to the west and Gaza Strip to the north. This place is a tinderbox,” Levy’s friend Ed said.

“The money Perelman makes on exports to Cypress, and Greece, not to mention Harvey’s Pulled Pork Palace in Tel Aviv, makes the moshav profitable.”

“The Muslims aren’t happy with swine wallowing in the mud,” Ed said. “They say the pigs are an affront to Allah.”

“I thought we were an affront to Allah.”

“We’re an abomination.”

“Shalom, swine-herders,” someone called. The two Jews stopped in the road, as did the mule, grazing just inside the fence. An Egyptian approached. He wore a plain headscarf, and white cotton clothes. “Those swine,” he pointed, “those filthy swine are going to be your ruin. They are an affront to Allah; an insult to Muhammad; in short, they offend our sensibilities.”

“Yes, we agree. They are trouble.”

“Trouble?” said the Egyptian. “Just look at what trouble is.” Along the mud-clay banks of the pond, a Large White, or Yorkshire boar, poured muddy water over the heads of other pigs wallowing in the mud. “What is that?”

“That is something we have not seen ourselves.”

“These are not swine or farm animals, these animals. They are evil spirits, djinns, from the desert. They will bring about the destruction of this place around you. They are an abomination. Slaughter the beasts. Burn their stench from the land or Allah will. For it is Allah’s will, that will prevail.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Leavy said. “You see, this is not our moshav.”

“We’re merely passersby,” Ed said.

“Allahu Akhbar!” The Egyptian turned and made his way up the sunbaked slope that separated the two countries. Only fence separated the postage-sized 48-hectare Israeli farm from the rugged, wind-swept Sinai Desert. Once the Egyptian reached the crest of the hill, he disappeared into his village.

“Doomed,” Ed said. “He is right. We are all doomed. Of all places on the earth to grow pigs, this swine-herder, this moshavnik Perelman, chose here.”

“Look,” said Levy. “What does he think he is, John the Baptist?”

“That’s trouble I’m afraid,” Ed said. “That’s an abomination.”

Out in the afternoon sun before God and all to see, the Large White stood upright, and from the pond dropped a dollop of wet mud over a yellow-feathered chicken’s head--“Bog! Bog!” cried the hen, buried as she was with mud to her beak. To the animals of the farm, the Large White was known as Howard the Baptist, a Perfect, and almost in every way. As the two men continued beyond the farm’s boundary, the mule turned toward the olive tree that soared in the middle of the main pasture. Border Leicester and Luzein sheep grazed among the smaller carob and olive trees as goats gnawed the scrub grass that grew along the upper terraced slopes that helped conserve water.

In the middle of the pasture, Blaise, the Jersey, and Beatrice, the bay mare grazed. “My goodness, Beatrice,” Blaise said. “Stanley certainly has caught wind of you.”

“He’s such a showoff,” Beatrice said. “Just look at him.”

In the fenced barn lot behind the white cinder block barn, the black Belgian stallion neighed and whinnied and pranced about in all his glory and swagger. He was a large horse with broad shoulders who stood 17 hands or, as priests from the local churches preferred, 17 inches.

“Do you suppose he knows that the gate has been opened?” Blaise said.

“It doesn’t matter. Just look at all those humans. Who said men were Godly?”

From the ridge of the brown sandstone hill, Muslim men and boys watched with anticipation as village women chased young girls away. While on the Israeli side, Jews and Christians, and monks among them from nearby monasteries, all loved a parade. Stanley did not disappoint. He reared back onto his muscular hind legs and kicked at the air, showing off his prowess and massive member, dripping wet as it was, sowing his seed in the ground beneath him for all who saw, and there were many. Cheers went up from the crowd as Stanley snorted, and swaggered about the barn lot. “If Manly Stanley wants to parade about and make a fool of himself, he’ll do it without me.”

“Manly Stanley,” Blaise laughed. “Really, of all things?”

“Yes, dear, you see,” Beatrice smiled, “when Stanley’s with me, he’s usually standing on two legs.”

Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze, and as they did, they drifted apart. Stanley, out of the gate, found his way to Beatrice’s ear. He whinnied, and whined; neighed and nagged, but no matter what he did or how nice he asked, nothing seemed to work. To the dismay of the onlookers, the bay mare refused the advances of the black Belgian Stallion. Unbeknownst to them, it was because of their presence that she would not allow the Belgian to cover her, and thus entertain them. No matter how much Stanley sashayed, pranced, swayed, or swung his member, for that matter, Beatrice would not give in to his desire or bluster. Several men continued to linger against the fence, watching and hoping.

“I’m beginning to think you like this, the torment,” Beatrice said.

“If I had a pair of hands, I wouldn’t need you,” he snorted.

“Wish you had maybe then you’d leave me alone. Look at them, quite content to be left to their own devices. Perhaps if you ask nicely, one will lend you two of his, or two of them and make it a party.” Beatrice resumed grazing alongside Blaise in the pasture.

The white two-story main cinder block barn, with the feedlot, and awning that extended in the back of the barn, and two pastures made up most of the half of the farm that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. On the other side of the road were the main house and guest quarters, both coated in stucco, the laborers’ quarters, the dairy operation, and the smaller dairy barn. A sandy tractor path turned off the road and ran behind the dairy barn down between a lemon grove and a small meadow where 12 Israeli Holsteins grazed.

As Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze in the main pasture alongside the two breeds of sheep, Border Leicester, and Luzein, a small number of Angora and Boer goats grazed along the terraced slopes. In another pasture, one separated by a fence and a wooden gate, grazed one singular, muscular, reddish-coated Simbrah bull, a combination of the Zebu or Brahman for its tolerance to heat and insect resistance and the docile Simmental. Stanley, all black except for a slender white diamond patch that ran down his nose, was back in the barn lot and continued to prance about, showing off.

The pig population was not just a geopolitical problem but a numbers problem as well. For they were proliferate and produced large numbers of offspring, often stretching the boundaries and natural resources of the moshav where animal husbandry was a practiced art form. Among the general population, also lived the rather large and mightily noisy blue-and-gold macaw parrot who was aloof, and lived aloft in the rafters with Ezekiel and Dave, the two ravens with their shiny, shimmering black feathers. Rounding out the farm population, besides the old black and grey mule, were two Rottweilers from the farmhouse who spent most of their time attending the mule, and the flocks and gaggles of chickens, ducks, and geese.

Blaise went out to the pond. Howard the Baptist was now resting among the other pigs when it was at its hottest time of day. He stood when he saw Blaise approaching. “Blaise, you who are without sin, have come to be baptized?”

“No, silly. It’s awfully hot, though, won’t you agree?”

“I agree you should join me and become a priestess of the true believers of God, those who know the truth that every one of us is empowered with the knowledge that God lives within us all; thus, all is good and pure of heart. Ours is a battle between good and evil, light and dark. With me, you are a priestess, a Perfect, an equal. Blaise, others already love and listen and follow you. This is your place in the sun.”

“Oh, Howard, you’re too kind, but I have no following.”

“You will. Come, this is your time to shine. Here, the female is accepted as an equal and shares in the service of our fellow animals, great and small, female and male alike. All are good and equal in the true faith.” Howard poured muddied water over Blaise, and it ran down along her neck. “We do not discriminate, or need buildings built of brick and mortar to worship in, or seek a mediator to speak to God.”

“Howard, I came out for a drink of water.” Blaise lowered her head, and in a clear section of the pond, she drank as the mud along her neck trickled down and muddied the clean water.

“Mark my word, Blaise, his sanctuary will come down around you and all the animals that follow him to a dark abyss.”

“It’s a barn, Howard. I have a stall in the barn, as does Beatrice. It’s where his ramblings-on-about loll Beatrice and me to sleep.”

“Blaise,” Howard called after her. “Someone is coming, Blaise. A pig, a minion, to do the mule’s destruction.”

“He baptized you,” Beatrice said when Blaise returned to the pasture. “I saw him pour water over you.”

“Mud mostly if you must know. Pigs love it. It is rather soothing I must say on such a hot day when shade at best is fleeting.” They started for the olive tree where the others, mostly the greater of the animals, stood in its shade. They stopped when they saw the mule approaching, not wanting him to hear them.

“I have to say what Howard says about truth and light and having the knowledge of God in our hearts sounds more appealing than the fear-mongering from him,” Blaise said.

“Don’t know what that old mule’s talking about half the time. It’s all mind-numbing.”

The yellow chicken, dripping from mud and water, ran past. “We’re being persecuted! Better get your houses in order. The end is upon us!”

“He’s so full of menace and foreboding, doom, and despair.”

“Beatrice, is your house in order?”

“I don’t have one,” she laughed.

“That’s Mel’s audience, easy prey,” Blaise said, nodding toward the retreating chicken.

“Oh, what does he know? He’s a worn-out old mule. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“Julius, on the other hand, is a good bird and a dear friend. He’s harmless.”

“Careless is more like it if you ask me.” Blaise nudged Beatrice with her nose as the mule approached to join the others in the shade of the great olive tree. Beyond the animals, on the Egyptian side of the border, the Muslim who had warned the two Jews of the pig population problem now was being chased through the village by his neighbors. Men hurled stones and boys fired rocks from sling-shots until he fell, and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

“Did you see that?” Dave said.

“See what?” Ezekiel said. “I can’t see anything for the leaves of the tree.”

Julius flew out and alighted in the tree branches above the other animals standing in the shade. Large at thirty-four inches with a long tail, his bright blue feathers blended nicely with the leaves of the olive tree. He had a black beak, dark-blue chin, and a green forehead. He tucked the golden feathers on the underside of his wings into his outer blue and would not standstill. Instead, he continuously moved back and forth in the branches. “What a motley crew this is.”

“Holy macaw! It’s Julius.”

“Hello Blaise, how do you do?”

“I do fine, thank you. Where have you been, silly bird?”

“I’ve been here all along, silly cow.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, if you must know, I’ve been defending your honor and it’s not been easy. I had to fight my way out of Kerem Shalom, then fly all the way here. Boy, are my wings tired.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she laughed.

“Blaise, you wound me. What don’t you believe, the fight or the flight?”

“Well, obviously you flew.”

“Did you miss me?”

“What mischief have you been up to now?”

“I thought I’d come out and join the intelligentsia of the higher animals–oh, Mel, you old mule! I didn’t see you.”

Blaise and Beatrice looked at each other and caught themselves from wanting to laugh.

“Blaise,” Julius said, “lovely day for a flock, don’t you think?” Julius loved an audience.

The chicken covered in mud caked to her bill and feathers ran toward them. “We’re being persecuted,” she cried as she ran through them under the olive tree. “The end is near! The end is near! Put your houses in order.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Julius said.

“There you go, Julius. She could stand a good flocking.”

“A good flogging is more like it. I’m looking for a bird of a different feather even though I hear she likes to cluck and is quite good at it.”

“Oh, Julius, you’re incorrigible.”

“Besides, what would my parents think? Well, not much, they’re parrots, but what would they say? My father was a babbling idiot who would repeat anything anyone ever told him. I don’t remember him very well. He flew the coop before I had wings to carry on. I remember, though, the day he left, dropping a trail of bird shit as he flew away.”

“What has it been this time, Julius, three days?”

“Why, Blaise, you remember, but who’s counting? I mean, really? Who can or remember back that far?”

“Doesn’t seem long at all,” Mel said. “Seems like only yesterday.”

“Mel? Mel, is that you? Everybody, in case you missed it. Mel made a funny.” Julius moved in the branches above Blaise. “Yes, dear, I’ve been away for three days, not far really, and having as much fun as one can while still so close to home. I dropped in on a covey of homing pigeons. They’re a feisty flock, those girls, and keep a neat nest. Oh, sure, they’re not as loving as turtle doves, but you can have your way with them and they keep coming back.”

“That doesn’t sound very parrot-like of you, Julius.”

“What’s a parrot to do? I mean, how many Ara ararauna species do you see in the bush?”

“Regardless, you’re supposed to mate for life, aren’t you?”

“Yes, well, if you recall, my first love was an African Grey.”

“Yes, I recall she was of a different feather?” Blaise said.

“My favorite Ara ararauna, and I didn’t care one iota what Mom and Dad thought.”

“As it should be,” Blaise said.

“What became of her?” Beatrice said. “I don’t recall?”

“She was stolen, taken from me, and shipped to the dark continent of America. She was such a striking beauty, too, with warm grey feathers, and dark inviting eyes. She was a real clicker, that girl, and could she whistle, " Julius whistled.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Beatrice said.

“I’m sorry, too, but we’re animals, aren’t we, some pets, others livestock. It goes with the territory.”

Blaise said, “So, what brings you out this time of day, Julius?”

“I’m a parrot, Blaise. I’m not a barn owl. I have friends to see and places to go.”

“Yes, well, after being gone for three days, I imagined you’d be in the rafters resting, or painting something. Not out in this heat.”

“As it happens, I’m off today to see an African Grey from the neighborhood.” Julius dropped to a lower branch, his blue feathers blending with the green leaves. “So, today’s visit will be something sentimental for me, and who knows, possibly the beginning of a long-term relationship. I don’t want to get my hopes up, though, not just yet. She may have already mated with another, which would serve me right for my late-night carousing. I’m just saying.”

“Your presence will be greatly missed,” Mel said. His irony was not lost.

“Why, thank you, Mel, but not to worry. I plan to be back in the old barn lot in time for the party, so save a dance for me.”

“There’s dancing?” Ezekiel said to Dave.

“Blaise, sometimes I think we’re an old married couple.”

“Because we think alike?”

“Because we don’t flock.”

“I’m a cow.”

“And he’s a mule,” Julius said, “and the only true non-flocker among us. It’s rather rude of us to even be talking about flocking in front of his Holiness, considering he can’t.”

“Jew-bird.”

“There he goes again trying to confuse the issue. He can’t argue the facts, so he attacks the messenger. In this case, and in most cases, I might add, it’s me. Don’t blame me for your predicament. I didn’t introduce your mother to your father, Donkey Kong. Oh, it was love at first sight when she got a load of that guy. She was a real Mollie, his mother.”

“What?” Molly the Border Leicester looked up.

“Not you, dear,” Blaise assured Molly.

“When you die, you’ll be a martyr to no one,” Mel said.

“When I die, I plan to be dead. Not leading the choir.”

“Atheist, Jew-bird.”

“Mel, Mel, Mel, a mule by any other name, say jackass, is still a mule.” Mel turned and broke wind as he sauntered off toward the fence line along the Egyptian border.

“You take after your mother too, especially from behind--both of you wear the same perfume! Just like a stubborn old mule, always has to have the last wind. What I wouldn’t give for a five-cent cigar. Be gone, you horse’s ass, or half a horse’s ass. The other half, I don’t know what you’d call that butt but cute. Speaking of his old black rump, I have a black bill. I use mine to pass knowledge and not fear or natural gas. I use my lovely black beak to do good in the world like climbing, breaking nutshells, and his nuts, whereas his rump--”

“You certainly do,” Beatrice said, not amused. “He talks, just not as incessantly as you.”

“Yes, he does out his black rump, but he can’t do both at the same time, walk and talk. It’s where we went to school.” Julius did a flip on a smaller branch, making it sway with his weight, his beak cutting into the bark. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have that cigar, after all. Lit up against his backdraft, it would have set off a small explosion and the neighbors would have gotten all giddy, and then the chanting, the chanting.”

Just then the call went out for afternoon prayers.

“Oh, will it ever end? We don’t stand a chance.”

Mel wandered along the perimeter fence line that bordered the Sinai Desert.

“Julius, you never seem to have much reverence for the elders, the leaders, our parents,” Beatrice said.

“Is it written somewhere that we should? I might be an animal, a parrot, but seriously, some of our elders would have us led over cliffs or to the slaughter through our holy reverence for them.”

“Is what you said about his parentage true?”

“What difference does it make?” Julius said. “His mother was a horse; his father a jackass, and together they had a darling little critter who grew up to take himself way too seriously, and now he’s an old mule, but from behind a real horse’s ass. Come to think of it, for a non-flocking mule, he certainly tries to flock everyone he can.”

Mel stopped at the back corner of the perimeter fence as a man in dusty brown robes stepped from a crevasse in the desert rocks. He looked hungry, weather-worn, and sinewy.

“Oh look, everyone! It’s Tony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert.” Mel stood at the fence as the monk came up to him. “They’re a fine pair, kindred idiots.” The monk reached over the fence and gave Mel a carrot and rubbed his nose. “Ah, isn’t that sweet,” Julius said, “just like two peas in a pod.” Julius rustled the olive branches, inspired. His face flushed pink from excitement. “Blaise, those two remind me of a couple of mallards.”

“Why is that, Julius, because they’re loons?”

* * *

Mel’s story as per Julius

“Before this moshav, it was pretty barren with no irrigation. One day a Bedouin Arab rode across the desert on a camel, leading a small caravan with a horse, donkey, and jackass as pack animals, Mel, his mother, and father. Even though Mel was quite young and small, he carried a substantial amount of goods. The Arab sold the goods to the Egyptians, and when depleted of merchandise and no longer needed pack animals, he sold Mel’s mother and father to his fellow Arabs. Oddly, no one wanted the young strong mule. He was strong, too strong, as it turned out. Thus, a djinn come out of the desert. Since he was an evil little djinn spirit, a demon-possessed mule-child, no one was willing to pay the price the Bedouin wanted for the muscular black mule. The Bedouin saw no choice. He removed the pack, and as he was about to shoot, out of the desert stepped Saint Anthony, ‘Alt!’

“When the monk offered to take the demonic little evil mule for an exorcism, the Bedouin lowered the gun. I think Saint Anthony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert, wanted someone to talk to. The Bedouin donated the mule, mounted the camel, and rode off into the desert, never to be seen since that time. The hermit monk took the little tike under his dusty robe and led him into the desert where henceforth from that day forth neither of them was ever seen or heard from again. Okay, so I made that part up. He took Mel to raise and to protect and to teach – whew, and did he ever! When the Jews settled and started moshavim in the area, this moshav was started. One day, fence and fence posts appeared from one end of the farm to the other end, and from the border to the road. The next day, when the fence went up from post to post, encompassing these pastures, Mel stood in the middle of everything, where he’s been ever since, in the middle of everything.”

“Really,” Beatrice said. “Is any of this true?”

“All I know is what I hear. Then repeat it. I’m like my father that way. We’re parrots and great gossips who can never keep secrets. Of course, it’s true. You see the hermit monk of legend, and his protégé, the mule pope of legend too, don’t you?”

“Where were you? Were you here, too, at the time?”

“Oh, please, this is not about me, but since you asked. I was but a little chick at the time, still in my cage, swinging on my perch, singing, learning art, philosophy, happy as a lark, living up there in the big house, when all of a sudden. I’ll save that one for another time. Let it suffice to say it had something to do with my singing. I can sing too. I’m talented and creative. I’m left-taloned. Jesus, thank goodness they were Commie-bastard unorthodox Jews or I’d be singing a different tune. Here’s one of my personal favorites,

‘Nobody loves me, but my mother, and she could be jiving too . . .

(Spoken)

What I want to know now is what are we going to do?’

“Unlike Marvelous Mel the Magnificent, I can’t answer that. The future doesn’t reveal itself in little revelations doled out from personal prophecies.” A small group of Muslims, mostly boys, from the nearby village, gathered stones. “But wait! Dare I say, I think I know what’s coming next?” They started after the monk when he turned and disappeared into the desert walls of the Sinai. “Aren’t mammals lovely,” Julius said. “Someday I plan to have one as a pet.”

Mel moved away from the border to graze among the sheep and rams at the base of the terraced slopes.

“Somebody has to keep that mule in check. What he’s trying to do to the animals is very dangerous, preying on their ignorance and fears. Once it takes hold it will be almost impossible to undo and reverse the damage done.”

“Seriously, Julius,” Beatrice said, “what does it matter?”

“In the name of Jesus or some other such nonsense, The Holy See will see to it that we’re dead.”

“Who’s that?” asked one of the younger animals, a kid.

“It’s nothing,” Blaise said.

“Who is Jesus?” asked a little lamb.

“Never mind,” Blaise said. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

3
The Rabbi Cometh

Before the arrival of the red calf, Mel, the mule priest, revealed prophecy of things to come, namely a savior. A savior to save the animals from this world of human bondage.

“Mel keeps going on about a messiah who’ll save us from our misery,” Blaise said. She and Beatrice walked through the pasture up the slope for the shade of the great olive tree. “Elevate us from our suffering.”

“I don’t know about you, Blaise. I’m not doing so badly myself,” Beatrice said, “considering our present conditions.” She and Blaise were both heavy with pregnancies.

“Well, I should hope so,” Blaise said, “As I’ve said, no one messes with you, not with a saddle, not with Stanley.”

“Yes, well obviously he did this time.”

“Yes, this time,” Blaise laughed, “but only because you wanted him to.”

“And now look at me! It was nice, though, just as I’m sure it was for you and Bruce.”

“Please, Beatrice, I’d rather not dwell on poor wonderful Bruce. It’s awfully sad what happened, I’m sorry.”

Bruce, a shell of his former self, stood near the water tank in the feedlot behind the barn.

“Yes, of course. Other than that, though, you seem to be all right.”

“Yes, well, I have you as a friend, don’t I,” Blaise said.

“Yes, who said only birds of a feather flock together?”

“The end is nigh,” shouted the yellow hen as she darted between them. “Better have your houses in order, for the end is nigh.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not birds then, don’t you think?”

“I think Julius is beginning to rub off on you.”

“There are worse things, I suppose.”

“Blaise, you’re all aglow in milk chocolate, and creamy too.”

“The laborers relieve me of the extra weight and pressure of the milk so sweetly. Not only that, but it’s almost a massage the way it feels. It tickles the gentle way they milk me.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Beatrice said. “I imagine that’s one molesting I wouldn’t mind having, but as a horse, a mare, they don’t bother.”

The two friends stopped short of the shade offered by the olive tree. In the middle of the pasture stood a large unfamiliar animal down the slope near the back fence. As their eyes came into focus, adjusting to the distance and bright sunlight, they saw a strange-looking, and possibly feral boar. Although a Berkshire and typically black, with a white ring around its neck, this boar was lean, about 250 pounds, with a sun-dried, sun-bleached, reddish hide. He also had a pair of white tusks that protruded from his frothing jowls.

Julius flew over and landed in the branches of the olive tree. “We’re saved,” he shouted and moved in the branches. “Look, everybody, we’re saved, I tell you! We’re saved. That pig has a plan and it’s written in stone.”

Mel trotted from the barn out to greet the boar.

“Is that mule trotting? Quick, somebody, get a camera so we can be witnesses to history or a conspiracy theory.”

Mel met the boar in the middle of the pasture, not far from where Mel had once stood when the fence had come up around him. On the Egyptian side, the hermit monk of the Sinai Desert, Saint Anthony, glanced over his shoulder as he disappeared into the fabric of the desert walls, undetected by his Muslim neighbors.

“Blaise, I believe those tusks a loosa.”

“I wouldn’t know, Julius. I’ve never been there.”

“What are you, wise?”

“Well, I should think so,” Blaise said.

“Won’t you marry me, Blaise, or live with me in sin? What I’m trying to say is I’d like some chocolate milk, please.”

“Coming right up, sir,” said Blaise.

“What do you say we blow this joint and fly away together?”

“Julius, you’re overlooking the fact that I’m a cow and a very pregnant one at that.”

“I beg your pardon? No, I haven’t. As luck would have it, we happen to have our very own handy-dandy miracle worker just dropped in our backyard. I’d be remiss if we didn’t take it to him. I mean, if he can’t midwife a calf and make a cow grow wings and fly, what kind of miracle worker is he? Blaise, if you won’t fly, neither will I. But if you will, I’ll meet you on the other side of the moon. How’d you like that, honeymoon over the moon?”

“I’m afraid, Julius. I’m afraid of heights.”

“Oh, my goodness, so am I! Blaise, we have so much in common. Do you like apples?”

“Yes, I like apples and prefer to keep my feet on the ground. However, if you ever get tired of flying, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Oh, you, naughty girl,” he said as they witnessed a miracle in progress. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Would you look at that?” In the middle of the pasture, Mel kneeled to one knee and the boar climbed onto his back. Mel straightened to begin the journey up the slope toward the pond. “That beast has borne the burden of that boar. I think what we are witnessing here is a miracle of biblical proportion. Say, wait a minute. That mule has gotten behind the cart. Oh, what difference does it make? We already know that old, oft-repeated, worn-out story anyway. Well, at least now we can cut to the chase and in 12 hours call it a day.”

Mel made his way to the pond. He bowed and the boar slid off.

“Well, Julius,” Blaise said, “you did say Mel was strong for his age and size.”

“Yes, I did, but now for a mule his age and size, he’s just stubborn.”

Howard emerged from his pigsty and waded out into the pond to cool in the afternoon sun. Mel left the two boars and went into the pasture to graze while remaining within earshot.

“Look,” someone said, “he’s walking on water!”

The Berkshire boar waded out in the shallow end.

“Oh, please,” Julius said. “We’ll never hear the end of this one.”

“I suppose you think that’s a miracle too?” Beatrice said.

Julius shook his head. “It’s a miracle you can think and talk,” he said and glanced at Blaise. “Well, talk anyway.”

Molly, the Border Leicester, as she nursed her twin lambs said, “Perhaps he’ll return Bruce to his former glory?”

“He might perform tricks and pull a rabbit out of his ass because he doesn’t have a hat, and make the lame walk, Beatrice talk, and the blind see, but returning Bruce to his former self, I’m afraid that’ll happen when pigs fly.”

“According to the barn boar, Joseph, pigs do fly,” Beatrice spoke.

“Well, duh,” Julius said. “Everyone knows that. Joseph, who happens to be the father of our newly arrived savior Boris, is correct. All you have to do is die. Then go to heaven. And, and then to earn your wings, all you have to do is whistle a happy tune and grovel.”

“Well, then, maybe he can help,” Beatrice spoke again.

“It’s a miracle,” Julius said and flapped his wings.

“Let’s ask him,” Beatrice added. “It can’t hurt.”

“Yes, of course, surely he’ll do it for the glory of his father who art in heaven.”

“I thought Joseph was his father?”

“He’s adopted.”

The Large White waded out to the interloper, his snout an inch from the Berkshire’s snout, almost touching at times.

“Cousin,” Howard the Baptist said.

“Don’t kiss me,” the boar replied.

“Wonder if he’s completely feral or only half?” Beatrice pondered.

“I’m afraid the half that thinks,” Julius said.

“So, it is you who has returned,” said Howard, “the seventh piglet of the seventh liter of Sal the Sow, Boris, the runt of the liter.”

“I am who they say I am.”

Howard baptized the pig, pouring muddy water over the head and shoulders of Boris, the Berkshire Boar.

“I protest.”

“I believe you protest too much.”

“I am without sin.”

“You’re still a pig. Besides, if you plan to be led by the tusks by the mule, you’ll need all the help you can get. He is bad news, but I’ll let you discover just how narrow the path is for yourself. But heed my warning, he is not a brother or a friend to the pig or any animal for that matter.”

“You forget, friend, I am He who was sent by my Father to save all domesticated farm animals from sin and a life spent in captivity.”

“Where do you plan to lead your sinners, messiah?”

“To freedom, paradise found among the mountains of the Sinai and away from this place, the corruption of civilization.”

“Oh, of course, the garden,” Howard said incredulously. “Stay here with me under the stars. Do not follow the mule or the hermit monk, for it is they who will lead you down the path of destruction.”

“It is because of them that I am here,” Boris said, “to deliver us from evil.”

“Who will deliver you from evil?”

As Mel approached the pond, Boris took his position next to him. “You are good and pure,” Mel said, “beyond sin. You will do your charges well.” Mel looked at the Baptist. Then turned away to join the others.

“And your daddy’s will,” Howard snorted.

* * *

The other animals, including Mel by this time, stood under the branches of the great olive tree out of the sun and watched in amazement as the two boars rammed each other, shoved, butted heads, pushing against one another until finally the newly baptized had had enough, and retreated from the pond and wandered off.

That night for reasons known only to the moshavnik Perelman, he separated the Jersey from the others and placed her in the stall with the newly arrived boar. Between the laborers, though, rumor had it that Perelman may have wanted the two, the Jersey and the Berkshire boar, to mate even though she was a cow already freshened with a calf, and he was a pig, something about wanting the reddish-coated hide rubbing off on her.

“Oh, I don’t like being called a pig. I mean, I am what I am, and I like who I am. I’m Boris the Boar, the Great Wild Boar, Savior of all animals, great and small. Or at least I shall be. For now, though, I’ll settle for the Great Wild Boar of the West. It’s the name pig, though, and as far as pigs go, we are loathed by so many of the human species. We have humans to blame for this, of course, and one man in particular for all this name-calling business. Oh, how I’d love for our species across the earth to go by another name, like buffalo. I’ve always liked the name buffalo or bison. I can imagine life for us would be very different if we were buffalo. Or gazelle! Doesn’t that have a lovely ring to it, gazelle? Gazelle pigs, lean and muscular and strong, of course, and able to go out into the world proud, not afraid to hold their heads up.”

“Then Muhammad would no longer be a friend to the pig.”

“Yes, there’d be tradeoffs. I shouldn’t complain, really. Call us what they may, we’d still be pigs in the eyes of many and loathed no matter what we’re called. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been called cockroaches.”

“Why were you and Howard fighting?” Blaise said. “Not long after he baptized you, you both were fighting, butting heads?”

“He said he was perfect, and the bigger pig, but I, being who I am, pushed back, because I am the greater boar.”

Had she not already fallen asleep Blaise would have agreed.

4
When Fetuses Fall from the Backsides of Cows

Mel walked along the fence, keeping within earshot of Levy and his friend Ed, the two orthodox Jews from before. Levy was listening to an iPod with wireless earbuds as they passed through the moshav.

“The Americans are coming!” Ed said.

“We’re saved!” Levy replied with the iPod and earbuds in his ear.

“It appears Perelman might be.”

“What does that mean?” Levy removed the iPod.

“He’s looking to sell the moshav.”

“Sell the moshav? He can’t do that.”

“The livestock, I mean,” Ed said. “He’s looking to sell off the livestock, the pigs, goats, chickens anyway.”

“Americans are coming to Israel to buy pigs?”

“They are in the market, yes, but their real interest is the red calf. So, while they’re here, for one thing, they might as well be here for the other.”

“I see. Evangelicals again on their way to save us from ourselves.”

“They’re good country people,” Ed said.

“Of course,” Levy said, “Christian fundamentalists. Why else would they be interested in the red calf?”

“Good eatin’?” Ed said.

“Perelman is selling the Jersey and her calf?”

“I believe so. They’re interested in its outcome for us and them.”

Levy placed the earbuds back in his ears. Those people, or as they say, ‘them people.’”

Mel stopped at the end of the property line where the two fences came to a point at fence-post corners. The two Jews continued on their way past the farm, following the road north.

That night Mel shared with the rest a vision he had had from a dream and it was prophecy. “I see men arriving at the farm. They will offer us salvation and paradise on earth, but what they want is to enslave us once again to the yoke and worse. Therefore, we must follow our newly arrived savior, Boris the Boar. He offers a different course of action, a new future, and a direction for us to go in. We must listen to Boris for it will mean the difference between our survival or our demise. Listen closely, we will pray on this, but we will follow the great boar, who art our Lord and Savior.”

“All right, Julius,” Dave said from the olive tree the next day. “What is this all about?”

“Remember our hero, Bruce, and the 12 Israeli Holsteins? Well, look,” Julius said and pointed an expansive blue-and-gold wing. In the meadow, the Holsteins were dropping calves, one calf after the other. “Bruce knew them all,” Julius explained. “As fetuses fall from the backsides of cows, the 12th Imam, as per our neighbors on the Arabian Peninsula or the Gaza Strip to the north, will appear or reappear depending on which family member they follow. Not only that, but we’ll also see the return of Big J himself. Few people realize just how close they were. That’s right, Jesus will accompany his friend the 12th Imam, the Mahdi, when he climbs out of a well. We’ll know the difference between the two because although they’ll both have prominent noses, Jesus will be the guy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and sporting a tan (the American Christians have landed, wink, wink).” The Israeli Holsteins were in clear view of the rejoicing Muslims on the Egyptian border, and the Americans, standing in the road on the Israeli farm. “When fetuses fall from the backsides of cows,” Julius continued his cautious tale, “in this fairy story as in the one about the red calf, it will bring about the end of the earth. The problem, though, for the Muslims anyway, these fetuses are breathing and kicking.”

The American evangelicals, two of them anyway, had arrived on the scene in time to witness the spectacle of fetuses falling from the backsides of cows, then the rejoicing and chants emitted from the foreigners on a hill. The younger of the two was lean and fit at 27 and had blonde hair, blue eyes. The other minister was 50, with dry, wiry Grecian Formula brown hair, and dry, gray eyes. About 5’ 9”, and stocky, he had never known hunger. Both men wore long-sleeve white shirts, opened at the collar, dark slacks, and black shoes. The Israelis who escorted the two ministers explained that it was supposed to be a sign for the arrival, or the return, of the 12th Imam, the Mahdi, depending on whose camp they belonged. However, these fetuses were alive, and the Americans witnessed the sudden end of rejoicing only to be replaced by monotonous chants before the foreigners on the hill disappeared into their village.

“Oh, well, better luck next time, I always say,” Julius said. “The good news is we live another day–whew!”

“I don’t understand,” Ezekiel said. “Fetuses are dropping. Why isn’t this omen a good sign?”

“Oh, it’s an omen all right, and a very good sign for those of us of the living. The fetuses that fall from the backsides of cows are supposed to be dead when they hit the ground. When 12 of them do, by the way, 12 of them fall dead; thus, cometh the Lord, hand in hand with the Mahdi to kick infidel butt like the supernatural superheroes that they are. Unfortunately, for our Muslim faithful, those fetuses hit the ground running. Way to go Bruce! Cigars all around!”

Before the crestfallen Muslims turned away, they witnessed the Christian infidels, as if on the road to Damascus, experiencing convulsions, rolling on the ground from laughter. The Muslims cursed the ground on which the infidels convulsed.

Once all the fun was over, and the Americans regained their composure, they saw two orthodox Jews heading toward them outside the farm for what would be a brief first encounter among friends with common interests.

“Shalom Rabbis, we come in peace.”

“We’re not rabbis,” Levy said, with the iPod and earbuds.

“I’m Reverend Hershel Beam,” said the older minister. “This is my young protégé and youth minister of our megachurch in America, Reverend Randy Lynn. We’re Christians.”

“Hi, I’m Randy. Whaddya listenin’ to, ‘The Yahweh Hill Song’? It’s about Jesus, you know?”

Levy’s friend Ed looked at his friend Levy.

Levy took out the earbuds. “Chopin,” he said. “‘Polonaise op. 53 in A-flat major, Heroic.’ A work he composed at the height of his creative powers, and during his love affair with the French novelist George Sand.”

“Nice to have made your acquaintance,” Ed said. He and Levy nodded, tipped their hats, and bid farewell. They turned back into the road and continued along their way.

“Did he say George Sand?” a confused youth minister said. “Chopin was gay?”

“No, no,” laughed Reverend Beam. “Don’t start biting your hand, Randy. George Sand was a woman.”

“Whew, I hope so,” Reverend Randy Lynn said. “Funny name for a woman, though. But wait, I thought he said George Sand was a novelist?”

“She was, Randy, a French novelist.”

“Oh, right, one of them people. Let me see if I have this right. He’s listening to Chopin, a Polish piano player who was in love with a French novelist, a woman named George?”

“So far, so good,” Reverend Hershel Beam said. Welcome to Israel.”

I would have thought ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ maybe, something closer to home.”

“Yes, you would think,” Reverend Beam agreed.

5
Rules to Live by
The Fourteen Pillars of Wisdom

With the advent of modern farm machinery and no longer enslaved to the yoke and forced to pull the plow or the thresher, the animals down in the valley on this sliver of land pushed against the Egyptian border lived peacefully for as long as any could remember, even comfortably as any animal could, considering their circumstances. They did what most domesticated animals had always done, which was to wait. While waiting one day, because they remained feedstock for humans, and fearful of the unknown and the dark, and of lightning flashing mysteriously across an otherwise dark sky, when thunder cracked and shook the ground on which they stood frozen in fear, the animals started to ask questions. “Where do we come from?” “Where do we go when we die?” “What’s it all about?” To which one animal or another, always of higher intelligence, would attempt to explain the origins of life, of how they had come to be where they were now and where they were going. It was an unfolding story with rules to live by if an animal was to be rewarded an afterlife in a field of clover, a garden as it were. So, through the years several elders, usually the pigs among them, took it upon themselves in an attempt to answer these questions, began to tell stories and make rules that they passed down to the animals that came after them, creating laws for all to follow.

One such collection of animal wisdom handed down through the generations was Rules to Live By, the Thirteen Pillars of Wisdom. Mel entered the barn, which was the sanctuary, with the two Rottweilers, Spotter and Trooper from the farmhouse. Mel announced, “I bring you good news. Play, frolic, and lounge along the banks of the pond, the same pond from which we drink. Especially the pigs among us, for this is your land, and Muhammad is our friend.”

“He might be your friend, but he’s not our friend,” said Billy St. Cyr, the Angora goat.

“If the pigs weren’t held in such high regard, maybe less attention would be paid to the rest of us by the Prophet and his followers,” said Billy Kidd, the lean brown and tan Boer goat.

“This is the Lord’s plan, and our Messiah, Boris, who is resting, has come out of the mountains of the Sinai to deliver us from our present state of existence.”

“But isn’t man great for he is made in God’s image?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; therefore, man is beautiful, made in God’s image. Thus, man is godly.”

“Then why are we to be delivered from our present state?”

“We are held by those who are not in God’s favor or made in His image.”

Julius called out from the rafters, “I beg to differ and find the premise of your argument flawed. What is God’s image? What empirical proof do we have that God isn’t made in man’s image? No man or beast among us would recognize the elusive God of heaven and earth if he were standing next to you or in a lineup.”

“The earth’s flat and that’s that,” sang a gaggle of geese.

“Hey,” Julius said, “who let those dogs in here?” Spotter and Trooper growled, baring teeth. Julius glared at them with his black eyes. “And that mingy mule?”

“We are animals. Every day we are tempted by Satan to abandon our relationship to man, and thus, with God. It is not for us to question the way of the Lord. In doing so, you must be a mouthpiece of despair, possessed by evil delivered on behalf of Satan,” thus spoke Mel.

“That’s convenient,” replied Julius.

“You are evil personified,” Mel said.

“I know,” Julius said, modestly. “I get that a lot.”

“You are not one of us,” Mel said for the benefit of the other animals gathered for evening prayer. “You are a house pet released from a den of sin, set loose upon the innocent to haunt and taunt them into despair, but they will not listen or follow.”

“Aw, shucks, I had no idea I held such sway over you.”

“You cannot make us, for we are cloaked in righteousness, protected from the evils of Satan, and from you, so help us, God.”

“I can’t take all the credit. I mean, where would I be without you, you with your fear and loathing, and me, me with my sunny disposition?”

“You will not corrupt or mislead us,” Mel said. “We are not sheep, after all. No offense.”

“None taken,” bleated three sheep in unison.

“Well, aren’t you on a tear? Don’t let me stop you.”

Mel told the gathering that the pigs among them were seen as holy by their Muslim neighbors, and to remember, and he repeated, that Muhammad was their friend. Scrawled in chalk across planks of boards against the back wall, and running down the length of the wall, were Rules to Live By, the Thirteen Pillars of Wisdom. Mel led the recital of the Thirteen Pillars of Wisdom as he did every night as the other animals followed.

“1: Man is made in God’s image; therefore, man is holy, Godly.

“There is no disputing this fact,” Mel stated.

The animals present all seemed to agree.

Stanley said as he did every night, “Humans only have 10, but we have 13? I can’t remember that many. I can’t even count that high.”

Mel, as he did every night, ignored the horse.

Julius said, “Unfortunately, this mule did not spook and drop a tablet or three on his way down from the mountain. Not even when a burning bush spoke his name, what nerve!”

Mel ignored the parrot, too, and resumed.

“2: We shall humble ourselves before man.”

Stanley snorted and stamped his feet. He raised his tail to dump a mound of manure. Some were aghast, but because it had occurred in his stall, and not the sanctuary, it was not a sin. The next day the Thai and Chinese laborers, being that it was the Sabbath, would clean out the stalls anyway, and put the manure on the compost pile behind the barn. Regardless of what day it was, mostly foreign laborers took care of the surrounding moshavim and farm animals, as they did with the animals on this moshav.

“3: The barn is hallowed ground, a sanctuary, wherein no animal urinates or defecates; wherein all is sacred;

4: Man is our creator and our salvation. Man is good.”

“I think we know who wrote his material,” Julius said, removing a paintbrush from his beak while holding another brush in his left talon.

“5: We shall not eat where we defecate;

6: We shall not defecate where we pray;

7: We shall not eat our feces or our young.”

A hen clucked to her sister hens, “These rules are impossible.”

“8: We serve man gladly for our survival.”

“Yes, we do,” quacked three ducks.

“He slops us,” said a pig, “so what?”

“Sounds like a lot of shit to me,” said another pig, and the young pigs laughed.

“9: For without man, we are lost.” Mel glared at the troublemaker. Mel knew him and his family, a bunch of pigs.

Mel continued,

“10: Thank God for man; we thank man for the animal, great and small, higher and lower of us;

“11: No animal shall eat the flesh of another animal, great or small, higher or lower among us.”

“No pig can live on slop alone,” said a sow.

Mel looked at the sow. He did not wish to stop the recital. She was a sow.

“Precious man eats animal flesh,” said another pig, a porker, and not long for this place, but soon for a one-way ticket for Cypress.

Mel stopped the recital. “You are a prophet, my friend.” He reminded the congregation that grain was added to supplement the already vitamin-enriched nutritious slop the moshavnik Perelman fed the pigs and that it contained enough proteins to suffice the animals’ needs. “You are well fed, much better than any other pigs in the region.”

“We are the only pigs in the region.”

“Therefore, you are a privileged few, and Muhammad is your friend.”

“What a wonderful life we lead,” said the sow.

“Right,” said the porker, “just like paradise.”

“What about us?” Trooper and Spotter whined.

“Are you not taken care of and fed handsomely?”

“Yes, Father,” they said and bowed.

“To everything, there is a season. To every dog a bone. So, turn, turn, and do tricks for your bone.”

The dogs turned, turned, and did tricks for a bone.

“Do not question me or my motivations.” Mel did not give the dogs a bone. Instead, Mel resumed the recital with,

“12: We shall not allow ourselves to be covered in mud.

The yellow-feathered chicken clucked and hid behind the other hens among the sheep.

“13: We shall honor our saints and martyrs.”

Mel ended the recital; however, he continued with his sermon.

“When we are outside, it is put upon us,” he sermonized, “to cover our waste, so as not to carry excrement into our house of worship. It is left to us to nourish the earth that grows the grain, and the grass that in turn nourishes us.”

The animals agreed, yes, yes, of course, that made sense.

“We shall mark our small, short lives on this earth, and respect, and honor those who lead us through the darkness of this world, and the animal kingdom at large, beyond our farm, so that we shall enter the kingdom of God to be shepherded by Him.”

“Yes, yes,” the animals sang out gleefully.

Mel continued his sermon, “And those who wallow in mud shall die in it.”

The chicken raised her head, “Bog.” She hid in the warm wool of the sheep. The young pigs didn’t seem to care.

“Any animal seen covered by mud shall be deemed a heretic.”

“He’s so mulish,” Julius said, “what a racket.”

“Do not be seen with the heretic pig of the great heresy or allow the beast to pour mud and water over your head or you, too, will be a heretic. I bring you the good news that we are all chosen as God’s children in the company of humans who protect and nurture us. Then feed on us, for this is the way of the Lord, the way of life, our life, as it is written and handed down through the ages. In a vision, I saw us led from our present condition to freedom.”

“Yes, it’s the part where they feed on us that scares up all the farm animals to flock to the great Mel, the Mule,” Julius said. “Works every time.”

“You will burn in hell.”

“Thus, sayeth the mule.”

“Atheist anarchist,” Mel said.

“Anarchy malarkey,” Julius said and addressed the animals below in the sanctuary of the barn. “Use your brains. Think for yourselves. Yes, we’re animals, but please, surely, we can think for ourselves, and forge a way through life.”

“You are not among us.”

“Listen,” Julius said, “the mule preaches fear, loathing, and superstition.”

“What does, loathing mean?” One of the animals said.

“You are not one of us.”

“Yes, you are domesticated animals, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a herd.”

Mel said, “Is there nothing sacred?”

“Yes, nothing,” Julius stated. “There is nothing sacred.”

Here came Mousey Tongue, scurrying over one of the beams above the sanctuary of the barn with the capitalist pig, Mousetrap in close pursuit. Mousey Tongue was a communist who thought everything should be distributed evenly as long as everything first came through him. He had a high-pitched, squeaky voice, and no one could understand anything he ever said. The capitalist pig, Mousetrap couldn’t care less what Mousey Tongue’s political philosophy on economics was. He just wanted to eat the little bastard.

“Scram you little rat,” Julius said as he and the ravens perched along another beam.

“I am not a rat,” cried Mousey Tongue. “I am a mouse.”

“What did he say?” Dave said.

“Squeak, squeak, something like that,” Ezekiel said. “I don’t know rat.”

“I am not a rat,” Mousey Tongue squeaked past them.

“Well,” Ezekiel said, nodding toward the mouse, “before the cat gets his tongue?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Dave said. “I couldn’t eat another thing.”

Mousey Tongue was also an atheist who, when not being pursued through the rafters by the capitalist pig, on occasion, defecated on the beams and took pleasure rolling his little turds over the edge, letting them fall where they may on the consecrated ground below where no one was the wiser, except the chickens who weren’t telling anyone. They were happy to clean house. As far as Mel knew, they were following rules number 5: “We shall not eat where we defecate;” and number 6: “We shall not defecate where we pray.”

When Mel called everyone to prayer, the chickens and ducks fell into position with the sheep falling in behind them. The pigs scattered about the sanctuary, and fell prostrate on the straw, many of them falling asleep where they lay.

“Well, at least those little piggies aren’t a herd,” Julius said.

Blaise and Beatrice watched quietly from the safety of their stalls, as did Stanley, chewing his cud. The sheep pressed their muzzles into each other, and from side to side, front to rear, they fanned out behind the chickens and ducks in the sanctuary. As Mel led the congregation in prayer, the Luzein and Border Leicester folded their front legs and kneeled, but their hind legs remained upright as they prayed to God for deliverance from evil.

“Know what I’m thinking?” Julius said to Ezekiel and Dave.

“Bedtime?” Ezekiel said.

“Shepherd’s pie,” Julius said as the sheep’s little white tails wagged happily. “I don’t know why. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been blessed with Shepherd’s pie. Have you ever had Shepherd’s pie?”

“We’ve had mince pie,” Dave said.

“Yes,” Ezekiel said, “and plum pudding.”

“Mm, the corn, the mashed potatoes, were my favorites, mashed potatoes you can suck thru a straw. Sometimes peas and carrots were added, and those little pearl onions. I was never fond of lamb or ground cow, though. I have friends.”

“May the Lord be with you,” Mel concluded.

“And with you,” responded the domesticated animals.

All the little lambs and piglets, the ducklings and chicks, gathered at Mel’s feet. They wanted to hear the story of how they came to be where they were in the world. “In the Beginning man stood upright in the Garden of Eden. He awoke to find himself in a mound of dung and sprang forth to greet the day. His name was Adam. As time went on, he grew increasingly bored, lonely in paradise. He asked God to send him a friend, a companion, someone he could play with. Thus, God, being the generous benevolent loving Father of all creatures, great and small, cut from Adam’s rib cage, a woman whose name was Eve. Once upon her feet, mud and dung were applied to Adam’s open wound to stop the bleeding. Since Adam was older, the first-born, and weighed more, he ruled all of Eden. Adam was a good man, a wise man, the father of us all who one day when asked by God, named each one of us as we were prodded and paraded by.”

“Wow, that’s amazing! The zebra?”

“Yes, the zebra.”

“And the beetle too?”

“Well, the beetle is an insect, but yes.”

“What about the weasel?”

“You must be referring to the parrot,” Mel said, but no one laughed.

“And the Australian dingo?” snorted one of the younger pigs.

Mel knew this was malicious intent. He would remember this porker.

“And the sheep?” said a Border Leicester.

“And he named the sheep too?” said her friend from Switzerland, a Luzein, and something of a rare breed.

“Yes,” Mel said with what was as close to a smile as he could make, considering he was a mule. “And Adam named the sheep too.” Mel knew this was good, with all good intentions for these were sheep.

They were of different breeds, though, the two dominant breeds on the moshav were the Luzein and the Border Leicester. The Border Leicester had a smooth hairless pink head with erect ears and a long roman nose with long, curly lustrous wool that was a much sought-after commodity used mostly for hand-spinning and other crafts. Although the Border Leicester were a long-wool breed with a long heavy fleece, the flock fared well in the arid environment and surrounding rugged terraced landscape. Although similar in size, the Luzein, named after the small town where the breed originated in Switzerland, their ears although pointed, dangled on either side of the long head. The Luzein stood high on their legs and were very vivacious. They, too, had fine features with a long un-fleeced head and fleece-free belly. Luzein were well regarded for their strong maternal instinct, an important mothering quality in nurturing and protecting their offspring.

Mel continued the story of man’s fall from grace when he was tempted by the sorceress Eve who fed him the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, which they were not allowed to know about. But God knew, knowing that she was a female, that she would not take no for an answer. Thus, she led Adam, and they ate the delicious apples from the tree of Knowledge. God called to them and made them answer for their indiscretions by banning them forever from the garden.

“At that moment they were made to hide their shame in animal skins and no longer solely able to live from the fruits and nuts and plants. Now they were made to kill or be killed and feed on the flesh of animals.”

“Oh, how terrible,” the animals cried and hid their heads.

“This is the wisdom of God for he is wise,” Mel said. “This has led animal-kind of all kinds to flourish and live among humankind across the face of the earth. Where humans are, so we are. Our relationship to man and how it has come to pass that man feeds us and feeds on us is that which makes the world go round. It is God’s plan, and we are in his hands.”

“Why?” asked a little whippersnapper, a piglet.

“The earth’s flat and that’s that!” gaggled the geese.

“It was to see if man could be trusted and kept from temptation, but he failed. Thus, man and woman were cast out of paradise and made to bleed and feel pain and hunger, and from that day to this one, ever since to hunt and eat animal flesh.”

The younger animals ran and hid as the chickens flew to the rafters.

“Oh, but we thank man for his fall from grace for it has allowed us to flourish and multiply and to be cared for and kept safe and nourished by man made in God’s image. So ends the word of God. Go forth now and multiply for it is your duty to serve God and man.”

“If he doesn’t sound like someone’s parrot, I don’t know who does?” Julius said to the ravens, but they did not answer. They were asleep.

By the time the service was over, both Blaise and Beatrice were asleep on their feet with Beatrice snoring ever so lightly. In a nearby pen, Molly, and her friend Praline, both leaders of their respective flocks, and not prone to such religious fervor, were also asleep, curled up warmly together in their part of the barn, where, once the euphoria wore off to allow them to sleep, the other sheep would eventually find their way. Praline was curious about most things around her. At certain moments like this, when she was in attendance, she often had questions, but would always think otherwise and not ask. If Adam named the sheep, did he not also name every breed for which she knew of at least four, including the Boer and Angora goats on the farm? The question was a simple one and she assumed the answer was just as simple. Did Adam name all the different breeds of animals? Someday she knew she would know the answer. Someday she knew she would ask the question.

Joseph, the elderly barn boar, 12-years-old, and 900 pounds, lay prostrate in one corner of the sanctuary with a small group of young piglets. “And 100 little angel-piglets fly around and land on the head of a pin.”

“What?” said one of the piglets, “100 balls of shit? Did he say you could roll up 100 balls of shit? What are you talking about, you crazy old boar?”

“Angels, my dear boy, angels,” breathed the elder. “Little angel-piglets fly around the head of a pin as hundreds, even thousands, alight on the head of the pin. This is heaven.”

“No, this is crazy,” said another young pig. “You are a crazy old boar.” He and his friends laughed and shuffled away. Mel’s ears twitched. He did not appreciate the tone the young pigs had taken with Joseph, the elder.

The next day there were Fourteen Pillars of Wisdom, with the following scrawled in chalk across the bottom of the wooden planks,

“14: Honor thy elders for they have struggled long and hard to survive the dinner plate into old age.”

6
Dueling Banjos

Boris was something of a novelty, a curiosity, and anywhere Boris went the other animals were sure to follow. One day they followed him out to the feedlot behind the barn where Bruce stood, leaning against a fence post near the water tank.

Howard the Baptist stood in the shade of the fig tree beside the pond and warned the animals to be vigilant against the possibility of marauders in the night.

“Ignore the blasphemer,” Mel said from the sanctuary of the barn. “He is the heretic of the great heresy. Follow him and you shall surely follow him straight to hell.”

The yellow chicken came running from the barn flapping her yellow feathers. She ran into the barnyard crying, “The end is near! The end is near! Better have your houses in order. Good day, rabbi,” she sang past Boris at the compost pile on the other side of the fence. She would soon be followed by a mass exodus from the barn.

It was the Sabbath, and no Jews were to be seen, not even the moshavnik Perelman. Juan and Isabella Perelman didn’t always observe the Sabbath, but instead usually traveled or at least never came out to work on the farm. The laborers usually took advantage of the peace and tranquility of the Sabbath, but they knew regardless of the occasion, when there was work to be done, it was left to them to do it. Today was no exception. Rambunctious as always, a dozen ten-month-old porkers were separated, held in a pen with a loading ramp next to the barn. More anxious and nervous than usual, considering it was the Sabbath, the porkers rutted under the fence, squealing all the while that something was terribly wrong, that something awful was about to happen, but what or when they didn’t know. The laborers were not to be seen either and this, too, frightened the corralled pigs, and all the farm animals for that matter. Afraid, they flocked to Boris, the Berkshire boar, and Messiah.

When Boris saw the multitudes come rushing toward him, he sat down next to the compost pile and knew where his next meal was coming from. They gathered around him in a semi-circle. Separated as he was from the masses by a lot fence, the masses could not kiss his pig feet. Instead, they cried, “Oh, dear Lord! What does it all mean, Rabbi? Teach us!”

As the others gathered around, the piglets, and there were many, with three recent litters joining the general pig population, because pigs every three months, three weeks, and three days produced new offspring, fell at the great boar’s even-knuckled feet. Next were the little kids, the Angora and Boer goats, falling in behind. Many of the newborn little lambs were either with their mothers while they grazed along the slopes in the shade of the olive trees or in the barn where most of the fowl spent the afternoons away from the pigs and other animals of the farm. Except for Stanley. He was in the barn eating grain from the trough in his stall.

Boris opened his mouth to teach, and this was what the wise one taught, “Blessed are the farm animals, high and low, great and small, for they are poor, and the poor shall be rewarded in heaven.” Sally, the Sow, appeared from the throngs of animals with her broad of new piglets under hoof from her most recent litter to speak to her son, Boris, the runt of her seventh litter.

“You, my son, have done well to survive and thrive. For this, I am grateful. At first, I did not want you to be taken away, so far away as that, and in that direction.”

“I am the son of He who you do not see or know but that I do. She is merely a sow,” he said to the gathered animals. “I am the son of heaven. Be gone, sow, and litter no more.”

Ezekiel and Dave alighted in the branches of the fig tree that shaded Howard near the pond. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted, for in paradise, which art in heaven, no animal’s flesh is ever cut from the bone for the nourishment of heavenly creatures.”

Cheers went up among all the animals and they were happy.

Not so the Muslims, who perched on the ridge of the village overlooking the Israeli farm and the animals below. “For this is God’s gift to those who suffer for righteousness,” Boris said. “Remember, no one eats in heaven; thus, no one defecates.”

“Rabbi, must we wait for heaven before we are rewarded?”

“It is not for us to question the way of the Lord,” reproached another.

“And until that time that the poor shall enter the kingdom of heaven, they shall first inherit the earth.”

“Nor do they, say you, Rabbi, fornicate? I mean, procreate in heaven?”

“There is no sin of the flesh in heaven. In the kingdom of heaven, we live in peace, the lamb alongside the lion, the goat beside the wolf.”

“What?” said Billy St Cyr, the Angora goat, who was due for a shearing soon, especially now, the height of summer.

“And the bird shall nestle with the alligator.”

The animals ran to Howard the Baptist.

“Well, there you have it,” Dave said. “I guess we’re blessed because he mentioned animals of the wild.”

“Do you want to lie down next to the crocodile?”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to cuddle with a snake either,” Dave said.

“No, thank you, Boris,” Ezekiel said. “I don’t want to lie down with the boar either, lest he snore.”

“Rumor has it he does, as per Blaise.”

Howard said, “This is nothing. Nothing but evil, owned and operated by Satan, and our lives on this evil plane should come to an end as fast as possible, so that we may enter God’s world. God’s world is the true world and the domain of our Creator God. All else belongs to Satan, including the barn in which so many of you worship.”

Boris said, “As surely as you walk on four legs, I am the way. In my father’s house, there are many pigsties. Through me, you shall enter heaven, for I am the way, the light, the truth.”

The Baptist said, “A truth.”

Boris said, “The Truth.”

The Baptist said, “Semantics.”

Boris said, “The only truth you’ll ever need. Just as the rivers bleed in the spring, I am the calm in the storm, the beacon to light your way through the darkness of this world.”

“You mean bacon, don’t you?” said a sow and smiled.

Boris ignored her.

At the pond, Howard the Baptist poured water over the snout of a sow. He said to those in attendance, “You are animals. You are innocent. You do not need a barn to worship in. You carry the true religion within you. It is not in this world or place or within the walls of the barn. The only structure worthy to house the knowledge of the true religion is yourself, for it is found within you. The truth is your buttress against this other nonsense and the evils of this world that enslave us for the slaughter and nourishment of the slave master. The true religion is in your heart. It prepares you to enter through me, your Prefect, into the realm of heaven that which was made by our one true God for us, the good.” Howard the Perfect of the one true religion then recited the Lord’s Prayer. When he said, “Thank you Lord for our daily bread,” the pigs, omnivores every one, darted, and started a stampede back to Boris, their one true Messiah, as per Mel, their spiritual leader on earth or this farm, and away from Howard the heretic, as per Mel. Mel, standing in the shadows of the awning of the barn, was pleased.

“The pure of heart waddles in mud,” Mel said to his two henchmen, the Rottweilers Spotter and Trooper. They watched from the floor of the barn as Howard continued to baptize piglets, goats, and certain fowl in mud and water from the pond. “Stubborn pigs,” Mel said. “They are delusional. They think they’re doing God’s bidding. Take your pick, two idiots talking a good game. Fools both of them, but one talks my game while the other is of no consequence. We can stand to use a pet pig.”

Mel’s pet pig continued his teaching, “Blessed are the gentle lamb and the kid, the daughter and the son of the sheep and the goat, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after truth and righteousness, for they shall be filled with righteousness and truth. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy and be plentiful in heaven. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God upon entering the kingdom of paradise, which art in heaven.

“Blessed are those who are shepherded by righteous man, the Christian, for they are truly the true children of God, and shall be called as such, and their shepherds Godly. Blessed are those who are persecuted, marked for slaughter for righteousness’s sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. For righteousness’s sake allow yourselves to be ingested, digested, and well-rested, for eternal life in heaven is given to you who is risen through the digestive tract of righteous man, the Christian. For as the good shepherd leaves this earth upon death and enters life eternal in heaven, you, too, shall enter heaven through the righteous Christian’s bowel.”

They ran for Howard.

“Beware of all others,” Boris called after them. “The Jews, the Muslims, the false prophets, for you cannot enter paradise through the bowel of the infidel.”

“Oh, my God, are you kidding me?” said Dave, aloft in the rafters.

“No,” exclaimed Ezekiel. “He’s shitting you!”

Howard warned the animals gathered at the pond that the Muslim holiday Ramadan was upon them and that if they wanted to survive to the Jewish High Holidays, they should take heed and prepare for a possible raid coming from the desert in the foreseeable future. “Look how they salivate over our kids and little lambs.” Egyptians perched along the edge of the village that overlooked the Israeli moshav, all the while watching the farm animals graze in the fields below. Howard continued his sermon, preaching that they should stop procreating. It was a sin against nature. As the animal population dwindled, he reasoned, the humans would no longer procure or process them out for meat, and therefore would leave them alone as they faded from the earth, which was created by Satan anyway.

The animals ran for the sanctuary to seek forgiveness and reassurance from Mel.

“Ignore the heretic. He is the heretic of the great heresy,” he assured them. “Disregard everything that comes from his jaws. Follow Boris, your true Messiah.”

“Blessed are the Christians for it is through their kindness that we, too, shall enter into heaven,” Boris continued his sermon next to the compost pile.

The sheep settled in around Boris’s four-toed cloven hooves for comfort.

“Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”

“The mink — what the — I don’t want any stinking mink inheriting the earth.”

“No, no, friend, not mink, meek,” said a 6-year-old 250-pound boar. “The meek among us shall inherit the earth.”

“Friend, there are no mink among us.”

Pandemonium broke out in the pigpen as a 26-foot box truck came into view and backed against the loading ramp. On the side of the orange-paneled truck in black letters: “Harvey’s Pulled Pork Palace of Tel Aviv, live Blues music Friday and Sunday nights.” Through all the squeals of protest and chaos, two men prodded the porkers up the loading ramp into the box truck and, in short order, they had the dozen porkers loaded and were gone, never to be seen again. As for the two men, they would return.

Boris stood on two legs and to the faithful, he preached, “My friends, those porkers were rendered eunuchs for the benefit of man, and being that they are swine, you can rest assured that they are intended for the gastronomical pleasure of Christian man. Put yourselves upon the cutting block and you, too, shall be assured a place at God’s table.”

The faithful squealed for Howard.

Howard preached of the forces of good and evil, the dualism between God and Satan, a close game at best, the evils of flesh and blood, the entrapment by the body and of the earth, of light and darkness, the sins of humans in general. “Stop procreating,” he advised. “Humans will stop eating animal flesh as our populations dwindle to nothing.”

They turned to Boris, who said, “Blessed are you when people reproach you, persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven. For that is how they persecuted the swine prophets who came and went before you.”

Julius flew out and alighted on the right shoulder of Bruce. “Who’s winning?”

“Tied, two-all, the bottom of the fifth, with two outs and a goat on second,” Bruce said and shook his head.

“Hmm, the bottom of the fifth,” Julius said. He moved to the fence post afraid that his weight would become too much of a burden for Bruce to carry and wear him down. “I’m afraid this game is too slow for me to stay to the end. What if it went into extra endings! Oh, my goodness, it might never end!”

Bruce closed his eyes against the flies.

* * *

“Duck!” quacked a duck in the barn when a Chinese laborer appeared from nowhere. Chaos ensued as chickens, ducks and geese scrambled in all directions to hide in all corners of the barn. The laborer reached down and grabbed a goose by the neck and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Two ducks ventured out and met in the middle of the sanctuary. They peered about, surveying the area as chickens, other ducks and the remaining geese came out from hiding.

“Oh, my goodness,” said the duck who had warned everyone. “That was close.” She looked at her friend.

Her friend said, “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.”

“Her goose is cooked.”

“Next time we may not be so lucky. Next time they might crave Peking duck.”

“Well, thanks be to Boris that none of us is from there!”

“Blessed are the Christians, for in their wondrous wisdom feed us,” Boris continued from the compost pile.

“If you call the slop they give us, food, you’re a bigger pig than I thought.”

“Blessed are the Christians who eat us.”

“Eat us? And you bless them for that?”

“You do not enter heaven through the bowels of a Muslim,” Boris explained. “However, because of our association with Jesus, we enter the Kingdom of God through the Christian’s digestive tract. And blessed is the Jewish God, Yahweh, for He granted asylum to the swine as well because the Jew did not like the sound of pigs squealing. It reminds him of the cries of babes. Rabbis, forever after, granted swine were dirty, and stupid, left us alone to frolic, and flock, and multiply.”

“Yes, well, I’m not so sure about that,” said a young boar, and lucky to be a boar. “He’s changed his mind because now some Jews are putting bacon on their plates.”

“They’re not kosher or devout as their Muslim neighbors. Regardless of what Muhammad said, or what he said that they did not hear, Muslims swore off pork.”

* * *

“So, when are you breaking out of this joint?” Julius said.

Bruce said, “When the tide comes in.”

“I didn’t know you could swim.”

“You’ll carry me to safety. Anything would be better than this shit.”

“I’m not sure, but it might depend on which way the wind blows. Don’t look now, but rumor has it, cell block number 9 is making a break for it later tonight. They have a tunnel dug, but I can’t bear to tell them it comes out under the Gaza Strip and not the Kerem Shalom mall.” Julius covered his beak with a wing as he turned his head to feign a laugh.

“Is the mule leading the way?”

“Are you kidding? He’s pinning his hopes on the back of the Bore of Berkshire, just as the Boar has the tail pinned on the donkey.”

“Tell us, O Lord, of Jesus and the Demon Swine.”

“Oh, yes, please do, Lord,” cried the piglets. “Tell us the story of how the demons were cast into swine.” And Boris did not disappoint. He told the story of how Jesus cast out demons into a herd of swine, but with a different outcome, which was joyous and beneficial, particularly to the young pigs among the farm animals.

“When Jesus came into the country, he was greeted by two people possessed by demons. They met him there on the road, coming out of tombs, and so exceedingly fierce, they would not allow anyone to pass that way, not even Jesus. ‘Behold,’ they cried out. ‘What do you know, it’s Jesus. What do we have to do with you, Jesus, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?’ Jesus replied, ’No, not at all. Just passing through on my way to Galilee, friends, carry on.’ But the demons begged him, ‘If you cast us out, dear Lord, permit us to go away into that herd of pigs over there feeding as they are far away from us.’ And the Lord said to the demons, ’Go!’ They came out, and went into the herd of pigs, and behold it was said, and the whole herd of pigs rushed down the cliffs into the sea, and died against the rocks.”

“Oh, how awful,” the piglets cried.

Boris assured them by saying, “My family, my herd, do not let your hearts be troubled. This is not the end of the story. The Lord of Man, our God, did cast out the demons into the herd of swine, but they did not rush down to the sea to die. Instead, they rushed down to the sea to frolic in the sand, the sun, and the surf. They did not die against the rocks, but frolicked in the sea spray, for the demons were merely souls that entered into the pigs, and they were playful, full of mirth and laughter.”

Cheers went up from the gathered souls.

“And those who fed them fled, and went away into the city, and told everything, including what happened to those who were possessed with demons. And the pigs were left alone to their own devices. Thus, therefore, and so forth, today we are plentiful.”

The barnyard pigs and their piglets squealed with joy.

“Oh, tell us, Rabbi, tell us the rest of the story of the demon swineherd.”

“Later, after casting out the demons into the swineherd, Jesus, to show he was a good fellow, went down to the sea among them, and as he walked on water, blessed the pigs for they were lowly, and absolved them of their sins. When the prophet Mohammed appeared on the ridge, he witnessed the herd of pigs playing in the sand and shit, wadding in the waves, making sand sties and mud pies, squealing and pealing with laughter. He said unto his people, “Going forth from this day onward, from the wiggly tail to the snout, this is what is to be left out.” But his voice was drowned by the rush of the sea and not fully understood. Therefore, what his will be done, went unknown. Not sure what was and what wasn’t kosher to speak, Muslims, devout as they are, and not knowing fully from the wiggly tail to the snout what was to be left out, swore off everything between. This is why they now sit perched on the hill as they do, salivating over our brothers and sisters, the sheep and goats among us, and their young lambs and kids, for soon upon us will be Ramadan. Although Jesus is known as a friend to the lamb, it is widely seen that he was a greater friend to the pig. Thus, it is because of the love of Jesus shown to the pig that the Prophet Muhammad is our friend. Except for those poor souls along the Thames or the Rhine or the Danube or along the banks of the mighty Mississippi or the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, pigs are grateful to Jesus and Muhammad.”

“He’s not our friend,” said Billy Kidd, the Boer goat.

“Yes, Muhammad is a friend to the pig even though he doesn’t show it, just as Jesus is a friend to the lamb, and as the good shepherd that none of us want, he shows it. This, as we know, is not so lucky for our brothers and sisters, the sheep and goats. Having Jesus as your friend does not ward off the evils of cutting flesh from bone.”

“In other words,” Howard said from the pond, “Jesus does not protect the lamb from flesh-eating man, and as for the pigs, anything from the tail to the nose is fair game. Men even use lambskin to cover the shank, so they can fornicate and not procreate.”

The sheep were torn and confused. They ran from one sermon to the other, from Howard to Boris, and back again until Mel stated that the heretic preached exclusion. Inclusive was only meant for pigs, as in “Mohammed is our friend.” The sheep flocked to Boris, their Savior.

“Blessed are the wretched. Blessed are the poor, for they shall enter the animal kingdom of heaven,” Boris preached. “Although the way is narrow into the valley of clover on the other side of paradise, believe in this, also believe in me, and confess to your confessor, the holy prelate Mel, and you shall receive salvation and live forever in the animal kingdom of God, where no animal feeds off another. And remember, Yahweh, for he, too, is our friend. When hearing the squealing of the swine, he shrieked and declared them vulgar and unclean. Whereupon, the tribes of Israel soon thereafter exited Egypt by way of the Red Sea. Yes, it is Egypt where we are from, and it is Egypt, our paradise on earth, where we shall return.”

Boris said, “I light the way to paradise on earth, and only through me to heaven beyond. Follow me and you shall receive, for it is through me that you surely shall enter the gates of paradise, and though the way is wide, the path is narrow, and through these narrows are the desert mountains, and the valley of life on earth. It is our resting place on our journey into the animal kingdom of heaven.” This day that Boris sermonized to all the animals would one day be known as the sermon on the compost pile, where Boris delivered the Beastitudes.

Boris added that not long after their friend and benefactor, Muhammad had granted the swine a respite to live in Egypt, that he rose on the back of his favorite steed into paradise.

“That’s funny,” Julius said to Bruce at the water tank. “All these years, and I thought it was a unicorn. The great Prophet Muhammad was the only guy of all of humanity who could tame that unruly, wily unicorn. And as the last unicorn rose into the heavens, so, too, did Muhammad, riding into the clouds on its horn. Shows you what I know. What I know from these true stories is who’s the greater prophet, Jesus or Muhammad? Jesus, of course. Not only is Jesus God’s gift to man, but Jesus! Even after being nailed to the cross all day, Jesus ascended of his own volition. Whereas, Muhammad, whether on the back of his favorite steed or on the horn of that unruly unicorn, had to hitch a ride. That’s all the proof I need to prove that Jesus rocks!

“Bruce, when I die, I hope to have a wing and a prayer, so I, too, may make my way into the clouds above. But if not, I’ll take an elevator. What say, you, my old friend?”

“I’ll fly,” Bruce said.

“Oh, really,” Julius said, flapping his massive wings. “I didn’t know you had wings?”

“I’ll grow a pair.”

Julius, who was rarely at a loss for words, didn’t say a word.

When the afternoon sun glinted off Boris’s white tusks, it scared the flocks, who flocked to Howard, even though by now they knew he was the heretic of the great heresy.

“Stop,” Mel said from the barn. “What are you afraid of? The sun of God alights on the tusks of the Boar, and you don’t know this is a glorious thing? Go back to the fold where you belong, and life ever-after is promised.” Some turned back, but others did not. The animals who turned back toward Boris were not enough to please Mel.

Howard said, “There is no fornicating that leads to procreating. If you engage in such sinful activities, you fornicate protected. However, it remains a sin against nature, a curse of the loins from Satan.”

Mel stepped out from the barn into the sun.

Howard said, “As our numbers fade from the earth, man will lose interest in us as a food source, and will eventually leave us alone as he, too, fades from the earth.”

“Yeah, like that will ever happen,” snorted a porker.

The domesticated farm animals turned and ran for Boris.

“Have you heard some of the shit that comes out of that pig’s mouth?” Bruce said.

“You mean Howard? I like Howard,” Julius said. “He means well. If they have to follow someone, at least he’s not going to take them over a cliff.”

“You like something?” Mel said as he approached the water tank. “I didn’t think you liked anything.”

“I like a lot of things,” Julius said, “but a mule’s ass in my face isn’t one of them.”

Mel took a long drink. When he finished, he jerked his head, spewing water over his shoulders and backside as he trotted off in a huff to the barn.

“Well, that was rather belligerent, don’t you think?”

“I try not to,” Bruce said.

“How belligerent,” Julius said. “He’s so belligerent.”

“He has God on his side.”

“I hear they’re best friends, like us.”

“These pigs are nuts,” Bruce snorted. “They argue different sides of the same coin.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Julius said. “I’m afraid nothing’s going to change much with these fools, and the fools they’ll follow to the ends of the earth.”

“Who clipped your wings?”

“I’m going to have to teach these farm animals a lesson.”

“And what would that be that you already haven’t?”

“I’ll teach them a song.”

“Oh, a song. That’ll teach them.”

“A song I learned from Pete Seeger when I lived in the big house with the Commie Jewish bastards. It might do them some good someday.”

“Who?” Bruce said. “The Commie Jewish bastards?”

“Too late for them,” Julius said. “They’re orthodox now. No, I mean the farm animals. I used to sing a lot when I had a home and a room with a view. One day I saw that view and wanted my space, fresh air, freedom. I flew out the window of opportunity and landed in the lemon grove. I took a bite from a lemon and that was enough freedom for me. I turned toward home only to discover that the window had been closed as I smacked against the windowpane.”

“Ouch.”

“It was smart. I slid to the ground and was almost eaten alive as one Rottweiler attacked from this way, and his evil twin attacked from that way, and the cat Mousetrap pounced from yet another. I flew off just as they collided into a massive heap of fur and a few of my feathers under the window. I haven’t touched the ground since, knock on bark. I suppose my singing may have done me in. I miss the big house and the family.” Julius paused for a moment, reflecting over distant memories. “I haven’t sung ‘Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ since.”

Bruce moved away from the fence and defecated, depositing a large mound of manure.

“Ah, look, Bruce, you’ve made some new friends,” Julius said as flies swarmed over the fresh warm cow pod.

“Can never have too many friends,” Bruce said and leaned against the fence post.

“Speaking of friends, looks like you have a couple coming to see you. Well, I must be going. Ta-ta, ‘til next time.” Julius flew off as Blaise and her red calf bounded from the barn. “See if you can cheer him up, will you? I’ve tried.”

Blaise pressed the young heifer between her and Bruce, rubbing against him as they passed. “Tag, you’re it! Lizzy wanted to come by and say hi.” A slender brown streak formed along the red calf’s lower midsection, but went unnoticed as throngs of people poured from tour buses and out of campers, who swarmed the farm and gathered along the fence line to glimpse the red calf that would one day soon bring about the destruction of the earth. Lizzy laughed as she and her mother trotted toward the pasture. The media appeared out of vans hidden behind satellite dishes to witness the progress of the red calf as if she were going to impart wisdom to the masses. The masses cheered and cried with joy upon seeing their salvation, but no sooner had they glimpsed the promise of the end than her mother turned her away. Under distress from the lights and cameras, Blaise and Lizzy disappeared into the sanctuary of the barn.

Bruce shook his head. He thought he heard someone call his name. He heard it again and walked out along the fence that ran parallel to the road past the barn. On the other side of the road, a group of four Israeli Holsteins wanted him to see his magic. Between them paraded 12 Holstein calves. “Look, Bruce,” said the young Holstein who, before Bruce had never experienced the joy of a bull’s company. “They’re all yours. We wanted you to see how beautiful they are, and how much they take after you.” One after the other, jumped and mooed from between the mothers Holstein, and passed along the fence so Bruce could see each one of them.

“Aren’t they lovely, Bruce,” the older Holstein, and close friend of Bruce, mooed. The other Holsteins walked up to the fence, each one nodding her approval and fondness toward Bruce. When they said their goodbyes, Bruce remained in the pasture to graze.

The other animals were confused, starting and stopping, scurrying back and forth as they had all day between the Baptist at the pond and the Messiah at the compost pile inside the partitioned-off fence lot. Finally, Mel exasperated, called from the barn that the heretic waddled in mud. A gaggle of geese looked puzzled as Boris waded out into the pond.

“The Large White, you foul fools!”

“Yes, we are,” laughed a duck as she slipped into the water, followed by her sister ducks and geese. They swam out to the middle of the pond among the pigs in the afternoon sun.

Bruce hadn’t been out in the pasture for some time. He had an appetite, too, but ate at a slow, methodical pace, careful not to become sick or knotted up from eating too much grass too fast and unable to digest. It had been a while and he did not want that. There was a time when things were different when Bruce was different.

7
Mating Season

Bruce watched Blaise as she made her way up the slope. He liked the way she walked, the way her hips switched back and forth, the way her tail swished this way and that way. He loved Blaise, but he also knew across the road and two pastures away the moshavnik Perelman hid the Israeli Holsteins down in a meadow behind the dairy barn and lemon grove. He watched her switch and walk. He watched her walk and switch, her tail waving at him as she grazed in the next pasture. She and Beatrice were near the terraced slopes, where the sheep and goats grazed. In the early morning sunshine, Bruce watched Blaise as she moved across the brown-green pasture, her tail swish-swashing as she strutted off toward the pond.

Bruce was every bit of 1200-pounds of muscle, a combination of Simmental, and patient, and Zebu or Brahman, and heat tolerant. And although he was tolerant, he was also hot and impatient. All the same, he was noted for his calm, easy-going way and reasonable disposition. He had small thick horns that turned inward from the temples and a white-patched, red face. Even with his docile temperament, his large scrotal size made him a prize on the moshav for breeding, and a grand specimen of a reddish-coated, thick-muscled, Simbrah bull to behold.

Blaise, although somewhat temperamental on the other hand, an Island Jersey (as opposed to the American Jersey) and 800 pounds, was an object of refinement and beauty, and his affection. She had a smooth unbroken chocolate color pattern in her body, but was a darker chocolate mousse in the hips, about the head, ears, and shoulders. She also had a well-attached udder with small teats, and Bruce knew within a matter of months Blaise would be freshened, her udder and teats laden with milk due to his charm, patience, and spunk.

Stanley came trotting out of the barn with his tail in the air and the smell of Beatrice in his nostrils. He paraded along the fence past Bruce who ignored him, standing next to the watering tank on the other side.

“How now, blue-balls cow?” he neighed.

“Fuck off.”

Stanley came from a long line of Belgian draft horses who at one time had carried knights into battle and then toiled in the soil shackled to the plow. Once gangling and stout, squared at the shoulders to pull the weight and carry the load, now though, through years of breeding, had become smooth, more rounded at the shoulders, more athletic, and showy. And Stanley was athletic and showy, a black Belgian stallion with only a slender patch of white diamond that went down his long nose.

“Now, now, bull-cow, you might have a lower hanging pair than me, but when it comes to the rest of it, nothing like this.” Stanley reared back onto his muscular hind legs and jumped. As his massive member bounced, the crowd went wild. Once again, spectators had gathered around the four corners of the pasture, men in their respective place based on religious faith, beliefs, and borders, all of them there to watch the black stallion mount the bay mare, none of them aware that the bay mare might have something to say about it.

“I’d be careful —” Julius called as he flew over, his under feathers yellow in the sun, and landed on the gate post. “I can’t fly and talk at the same time — if I were you.”

Stanley snorted, “Even his horns are small.”

“Notice anything different today, Stanley?” Julius walked up along the fence post to the open gate. “I wouldn’t want to get his dander up if I were you. Nothing is keeping him from Blaise, Beatrice, or you, for that matter.” Julius alighted on Bruce’s hindquarters. Flapping his blue wings, he folded his golden under feathers behind him in a long plumage of tail. “If Bruce wants, Bruce gets. He’ll come over there and take Beatrice from you. If he wants, he’ll come over there and take you.”

“He can try,” Stanley huffed, “but I’d be too fast for him anyway. End of story.”

Bruce ignored Stanley mostly, watching him out the right side of his head. “Better move along little doggie,” he said.

“Stanley, you and Bruce now have full access and your choice of co-habitators. That means nothing is keeping you from Beatrice except Beatrice.”

“I know that.”

“Run along, horsey, before you wear yourself out.”

“Oh, might wear you out.” Stanley trotted off in a huff. “Wear out, huh? Wear you out, you mean,” Stanley said from a safe distance. He saw Beatrice near the pond. She was in the same pasture as him. He ran up alongside her.

“Why don’t you leave the poor beast alone,” Beatrice said.

“What? Oh that, nonsense. We’re friends, just a little male rivalry.”

Julius stretched, flapping his blue-and-gold wings over Bruce’s hindquarters. “This has got to be the finest rump roast I’ve seen. I’d be careful where you shake that thing. The neighbors might covet it.”

Stanley and Beatrice grazed in the same pasture. Beatrice grazed. Stanley paraded about, showing off his prowess to the roar of the crowd. “Look, Beatrice, the moshavnik opened the gate so we could be together. So, let’s get together. It’s only natural. It’s something we’re supposed to do. Listen, baby, look what you’ve done to me. I can’t walk or think straight with this club foot. It hurts when I do this.” He reared back onto his massive hind legs to wild applause.

“You, foolish horse,” she said and walked away.

“Baby, please, you don’t understand. We have an audience, fans we can’t let down. They’re here for me–you, us, for us.”

Beatrice, exasperated, stopped. “Would you do me a favor?”

“What is it? Anything for you, baby.”

“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”

“Someone might have a camera for just this sort of thing, you know. You know, I could be famous, a star! Come on, Beatrice, don’t be shy, please. Please, Beatrice, wait.”

Beatrice stopped.

“What? What did I say?”

“I’m sure whoever has the camera would gladly get you a girl too. I understand in certain communities, probably this one included, some people like just that sort of thing.”

“Well, yeah, if she’s in a habit.”

Beatrice turned and walked away. “These people aren’t here for that though. They’re here for me–you, us, I mean.” She went into the next pasture to graze alongside Blaise.

Blaise said, “How do you do?”

“I do fine. Thank you for asking.”

Julius alighted in the branches of the great olive tree where the ravens Ezekiel and Dave were. Along the slopes, a herd of lesser and younger animals grazed along the second-tiered slope of the terraced landscape. Blaise and Beatrice grazed nearby as ducks and geese swam and bathed in the pond near the barn lot as pigs lounged along its muddy banks in the mid-morning sun. Julius moved through the olive tree along one of the lower hanging branches.

“I interrupt this program to bring you the following announcement.”

“Wait,” cried a piglet. “What is it this time, the earth’s round?” He pealed with laughter and rolled in the dirt.

A gaggle of geese gabbed as usual, “The earth’s flat and that’s that.” And with that, the knowledgeable hens turned and waddled off, their heads held high on slender necks.

“I crack those eggs up every time.”

“I know,” said a young sheep, but a lamb. “The earth’s round and more than 6000 years old!” The lambs joined the pigs with laughter.

“For such a little lamb that wolf has teeth.”

Without Molly and Praline to keep the young sheep on the correct course of inquiry, this was what was had, sheep influenced by pigs.

“The sun is the center of the universe and the big, round earth rotates around the sun! Is that it?” a duck quacked.

“Well, since you put it that way, yes.”

Dave’s feathers were ruffled. He shook his head. He turned to Ezekiel and said, “Give them something to think with and this is what you get.”

“Ignore these animals, Julius,” Blaise said. “What is the announcement you wish to make?”

“Pete Seeger is my hero. Where I come from, he was everyone’s hero until they turned orthodox and emigrated to Brooklyn.”

“And I suppose you’d like a hammer?”

“And, yes, I suppose I would.”

“You’re a bird,” Beatrice said, “a parrot. What can you do with a hammer?”

“I have claws, and I’m not afraid to use them. I use paintbrushes, don’t I?”

“How would anyone know what you do with them? No one’s seen anything you do.”

“I’m shy, a work in progress.”

“Julius, what would you do if you had a hammer, a smallish hammer if you like?”

“Blaise, ‘if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land. I’d hammer out warning. I’d hammer out danger. I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters, all over this land.’ If only I had a hammer?”

“Well, will someone please get this busy macaw a hammer?”

“We’re animals. How can we get him a hammer?”

“Where are those ravens when you need them?” Julius said. “Oh, there you are. Never mind, I don’t need a hammer.” Julius left the tree branch and perched on Blaise’s left shoulder, near her ear. “Although he may not show it, not like Stanley anyway, Bruce has great desire. He’s fond of you. You’ll see,” Julius said and winked. Blaise was unable to see him wink. She didn’t need to. She knew from the inflection in his voice.

“What are you, Julius, his agent, I suppose?”

“He’s a friend. Besides, everyone needs love. Everyone needs a friend.”

“Yes, well, Julius, I’m quite aware of Bruce’s proclivities, thank you very much.”

“Proclivities,” Julius said to the ravens in the olive tree. “She’s from England, you know. She even has an island named after her. It’s called Blaise.”

“Yes, well, there’s a Guernsey somewhere with an island named after her as well, so don’t think too much of it. And it’s not Blaise, you silly bird.”

“Modest, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Thank goodness Bruce isn’t a show-off like Manly Stanley,” said Beatrice.

“Yes, he’s more like me in that respect,” Julius said. “We’re more reserved and less showy.”

“More like you, less showy, you don’t say?”

“That’s not to say we don’t have something to crow about, we just prefer not to.”

Beatrice nudged Blaise, and they laughed.

Julius flapped his great wings and flew off to rejoin Bruce grazing in the middle of the pasture behind the barn. He landed on the great beast’s backside and made his way along his right shoulder.

“Watch those claws, and whatever you have to say, speak softly if you’re going to sit there all day, spouting off.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want the mule’s spies overhearing anything we might say either.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Yes, I agree, and everyone has one. I have one. You have one. People have them, too, everyone, assholes. What they,” Julius said, “those made in God’s image, prefer to call a soul.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s still an asshole and he’s full of shit.”

“I’m going to have to ratchet it up with the mule. I need to make that old mule a mule.”

“Why bother?”

“If only one animal hears me and sees through this nonsense, well, then, I’ll feel that I’ve done some good.”

“They’re animals, domesticated farm animals. They need to believe in something and follow someone.”

“Well, then, why not you?” Julius said.

“I like Howard,” Bruce said. “He’s a better alternative to the mule, but cerebral loses out to the meaty flesh of sin and shit.”

“I like him, too, but like his mulish rival, he is a celibate. No flocking for that boar, which makes him quite the bore, and just as the old mule can’t, that boar won’t. All for a good cause, of course, nothing,” Julius said.

Bruce leaned down to graze and Julius almost tumbled off.

“Careful, wish you’d warn me next time you do that, the nerve.” Julius climbed up along Bruce’s backside, lest he lost his balance and had to fly off, but Julius wasn’t going anywhere.

“From what I saw, you’re losing the battle for assholes.”

“They’re young. They’re impressionable,” Julius said, “but if not me, then who?”

Bruce turned and raised his tail and defecated, a large warm mound of bullshit formed behind him as he moved away.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Julius said. “Yo, dude, that is some deep shit, man. Seriously, though, your timing is impeccable. What economy of words! What clarity! You’ve certainly proven Edward De Vere correct who wrote, ‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’”

Bruce was chewing his cud, “Who?”

“Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford.”

“Whatever.”

“And by the size of that mound, Wit large.” Julius bounded along Bruce’s backbone to his shoulders. “Do you know why God gave man thumbs? So, he could pick up our shit.”

“I don’t believe you believe in God.”

“I don’t believe the joke would have worked as well.”

“What joke?”

* * *

That night while most people were tucked away in their beds asleep, the bay mare, on the other hand, nuzzled up against the black Belgian Stallion in the barn lot, running her nose up along his great neck. Stanley neighed and shook his mane and stamped his feet. Beatrice stepped in front of Stanley and pushed against him, pushing against his smooth, rounded barrel chest. Without an audience in attendance, Manly Stanley snorted, and reared back onto his muscular hind legs, and covered Beatrice in the moonlight.

8
Wonderful Today

Stanley and Beatrice grazed together as the sun came up around them. Bruce and Blaise grazed nearby. All four animals demonstrated voracious appetites to the dismay of those who had gathered around to see the live, mating-season show. Disheartened, they, the Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike, all went their separate ways, in different directions to their homes and locations.

“Well, hello, Beatrice, how do you do?”

“Hello, Blaise of Jersey, I do fine, thank you. So nice of you to ask, though.” Beatrice smiled, “And, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. I’m wonderfully well.”

“Yes, the sun has given you such a nice color.”

“Thank you for noticing,” Blaise said, and smiled at her friend. “Isn’t it a gloriously lovely day?”

“Yes, it is,” Beatrice said. “I couldn’t agree with you more, just wonderful today.”

As they walked off together, Blaise said, “Dear Beatrice, no one molests you, do they?” They laughed happily.

“Not even a saddle.”

“Not even Manly Stanley.”

“Well, unless I want him to. There is a difference,” Beatrice said and the two friends laughed. They knew there was grain to be had in the barn, and so it was off to the barn they headed.

“Hey,” Stanley said when he saw Bruce.

Bruce nodded. The two great males of the moshav, the shimmering black Belgian stallion, and the reddish-coated Simbrah bull, continued to graze in the main pasture in the morning sun together among the sheep and goats.

9
BBC
or
Why did the Bull Cross the Road?

Bruce found himself back in his little pasture of the world. It was the feedlot behind the barn. He shook his great head and massive shoulders. He knew where the Israeli Holsteins were. Bruce raised his head as a light breeze blew over from the direction of the Holsteins. Local girls, a herd of 12, and Bruce loved BBC, big beautiful cows. As he contemplated the Holsteins, a couple of them had ventured up to the fence across the road. They grazed a little along the fence, but had come up to the road mostly to tease and taunt Bruce.

Standing inside the fence one of the heifers called out, “Oh moo-hoo, Brucee, are you there? When are you ever going to come back and see us, big boy? My goodness, how long has it been, years at least if not longer?”

“This may be true for you, but if dreams do come true, this will be my first time,” the younger heifer said. “I mean, alive and warm anyway. I’m a little nervous. The first time was through artificial insemination and that was no fun.”

“Oh, my, my, my, Bruce does not disappoint. My dear, you’re in for a treat, and not to worry. Bruce is both gentle and fun and at the same time too.”

“But there’s a barn lot of us. Can he manage, you know, all of us in one night?”

“Oh, my, yes, dear. He’s the only male species who can impregnate us all through the course of an evening, and yet satisfy too. He’ll take his time, you’ll see.”

“Thank goodness. Anything’s got to be better than a cold, sterile instrument.”

“We only need one bull, my dear, and there’s only one Bruce, and he’s ours.”

The two heifers shared a laugh and rubbed shoulders as they sauntered off down inside the road to the meadow past the lemon grove. The Israeli Holsteins were head and shoulders larger than Blaise. They were close in stature to Bruce, nearly all of them 12 hundred pounds. A mixture of black and white, with black being the dominant color; each of the 12 cows had a large, full, low-hanging udder and big teats, and all of them white. Although similar in design, each cow had her own, unique personality. Bruce loved them all and would know each one after the other intimately before the night was over. He caught their scent wafting on the night air and it was nice.

He walked along the fence to the gate that opened onto the road that separated the two main pastures. He breathed deeply and snorted through his nostrils. It had four wooden planks. Bruce raised a hoof and kicked out the second rung from the bottom of the gate. Then he kicked and broke in half the third plank. He used his massive head and pushed through the upper rung to get to the other side. Not wanting to rush things or hurt himself, he stepped over the fourth rung one hoof at a time, careful not to scrape his low-hanging scrotum against the bottom rail. Once he cleared the bottom rung, he crossed the road toward the opposite pasture. One more gate stood between him and earthly bliss. At the fence, he looked over the barbed wire (which was in place as much to keep the Muslims out as it was to keep the heifers in), but couldn’t see the dairy cows because of the row of lemon trees. He knew they were there. The Holsteins were hidden from view by the lemon grove along the fence line in the meadow in the back of what was the dairy operation of the farm. He could hear them and smell them down in the meadow. Bruce kicked the lower rung and raised a hoof and broke in half the middle one. He then used his horns to push through the upper rail. He stepped into the pasture and looked up and down the fence line. To his liking, he saw no one. He ambled along the field road down past the lemon grove into the meadow on the trail of 12 big beautiful cows in waiting.

When Bruce approached the heifers, it was dark under a clear sky with the same moon as the night before. They startled and scattered about, but none of them moved too far away lest she missed something important.

“Here I am, girls. Here I am,” he said.

“Hey, look girls. It’s Brucee! I told you he’d come.”

“Oh, my Bruce!” mooed a mature Holstein, happy to see him.

“Shalom you, naughty devil,” said another Israeli Holstein, obviously an old friend.

“Come here you, old dawg,” said another as she slid up against him.

“Shush,” he said. “Now quiet down, girls. We wouldn’t want to be found out, not yet anyway. I just got here.”

“Right, heavens no, we wouldn’t want that,” they mooed gleefully, rubbing their muzzles and bodies against him in the moonlight.

“Besides, this is not according to plan. All hell would break loose if we woke the neighbors.”

10
Curses

On Perelman’s moshav, it was mayhem and chaos. The bull had somehow gotten into the pasture with the Holsteins and all of Juan Perelman’s animal husbandry and planning had been shot in one night with each shot fired by the bull. Bruce was famished.

“Harah,” the moshavnik Juan Perelman said.

“Shit,” one of the Chinese laborers translated.

“Benzona,” Perelman said. It was his moshav.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Beitsim,” Perelman said.

“Balls.”

“Mamzer.”

“Goddamn bastard,” said the Chinese laborer.

“Excuse me,” said his countryman, and a gentleman. “He did not say Goddamn.”

“I’m a Taoist. What do I care?” His countryman, and a gentleman, was also a Buddhist, as was the Thai laborer. Even though they were Buddhists, there was no friendly ground shared between the two men because one’s Buddha was bigger than the other’s Buddha.

Juan Perelman said, “I’ll bet the Egyptians had something to do with this.”

“What are you going to do?” Isabella Perelman said as she walked up to join her husband at the fence.

“I’m thinking.”

“Get rid of them,” she said. “Other moshavim have their issues, like us with land and water. Sale them off, all of them.” She was attractive, with dark eyes, and long dark hair.

“I don’t know?”

“Ship them off then, or give them away if you have to, but let’s finally turn the soil over on this farm and into crops and fruit trees, fig, date, olive trees, and fields of grain, wheat, and hayfields. Feed the people something. They don’t eat pig.”

The Chinese and Thai laborers exchanged looks. Wait a minute, they thought, we’re people too.

“That’s not the issue here, Isabella. It’s the dairy operation that’s in question.”

“Well, how do you know he impregnated them anyway? I mean, seriously 12 Holsteins and the Jersey only a day before.”

“Look at him. He’s famished. I imagine he’s lost a hundred pounds in two days.” Bruce covered a lot of ground, gnawing away at the grass under hoof where he went. “Look how his balls hang. He got to them all and something’s got to be done about it.”

“Still, Juan, don’t we want the cows producing milk?”

“We can only handle four freshened cows at a time, maybe five, but not twelve–thirteen! We don’t have the resources to handle all of them, and the pigs, and all the other animals.”

“Why can’t we just sell or move cows to other moshavim?”

“I don’t want to. Besides, they have issues already and can’t add ours to theirs. Water is an issue for everyone, as is the land.”

Vengeance was theirs — his, or so said Juan Perelman, the moshavnik, whose moshav the bull had just ruined.

“I want this bull to be taught a lesson,” he said.

“What then, abort the calves?”

“No, call Rabbi Ratzinger.”

“A rabbi,” she said, “why a rabbi?”

“This is who we are. I’ll show him to mess with me. Curse this bull anyway. We need a rabbi at a time like this.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Won’t stand for this.”

The Chinese and Thai farm laborers corralled the bull and drove him back into the feedlot behind the barn and away from the other animals. They waited for the arrival of the rabbi.

Juan Perelman said, “This bull shall suffer the wrath of God and then some.” Isabella headed for the farmhouse. Juan called after her, “He will pay for what he has done.”

“Whatever,” she said, waving him off with her hand.

“This is an abomination.”

Rabbi Ratzinger arrived with his entourage, male members of his congregation. They followed him in lock-step, all moving as one from the car to the field and the lot behind the barn. The rabbi had a gray beard and wore a black fedora, a black frock coat, a white shirt, and Bermuda shorts. It was a hot day under the sun, a gift from G-d. The shorts were modest, and the rabbi’s legs very white and thin, also a gift from G-d. The members of the congregation wore fedoras with dark clothes, pants, and coats with white shirts. Their beards and curls were of various lengths and shades of black to brown to gray. They wore un-shined black shoes and white socks.

The rabbi said, “He shall suffer from here to eternity for what he has done without our permission or blessing. This is an abomination against G-d and shall not go unpunished. This is a lesson to be learned by animals of this moshav and by animals of all moshavim.” He continued then to deliver his curse of curses to condemn this bull of this moshav for all eternity.

Thus, sayeth Rabbi Ratzinger, “With much ado and with the judgment of the angels, and of the saints of heaven, we of the temple mount do solemnly condemn to here, and we excommunicate, cut, curse, maim, defeat, bully, and anathematize the Simbrah bull of the Perelman moshav and with the consent of the elders and all the holy congregation, in the presence of the holy books. Let it be known not of this moshav or any moshavim is he to be acknowledged of but an outcast for his sins against the moshavnik Perelman by the 613 precepts which are written therein with the anathema wherewith Joshua cursed Jericho, with the curse which Elisha laid upon the children and with all the curses which are written in the law. We curse the bull; we curse thy offspring, progeny.” Rabbi Ratzinger was interrupted when one of his congregation assistants whispered in his ear.

“Yes, of course.” The rabbi cleared his throat and resumed his litany. “We shall allow the offspring to prosper and to grow and bear milk and meat for the nourishment of the multitudes until then that day comes when his progeny is no more, for they have long been consumed and have perished from this earth. With this one exception cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night. Cursed be he in sleeping and cursed be he in walking, cursed in going about the fields and cursed he when coming into the paddocks to feed and drink. The bull shall not spawn his evil seed again upon the earth.”

Bruce sneezed and shook his great head.

“The Lord shall not pardon him, the wrath and fury of the Lord shall henceforth be kindled against this animal, and shall lay upon him all the curses which are written in the book of the law. The Lord shall destroy his name under the sun, his presence, his seed, and cut him and cut him off for his undoing from all animals that graze on this moshav, and all moshavim of Israel, with all the curses of the firmament which are written in the book of the law.”

When the rabbi finished his curse of biblical proportion, someone said, “Look, Rabbi, what should be done about that?”

Near the pond, the Yorkshire boar poured dollops of mud and water over the heads and shoulders of young lambs and kids.

“Nothing,” said Rabbi Ratzinger. “That is of little consequence.”

Something hit the rabbi, splattering against the lapel of his frock coat. Julius, followed by the ravens, flew over and bombed Rabbi Ratzinger and his entourage with bird shit. Julius had gotten off a direct hit, splattering yellowish feces up the lapel of the rabbi’s frock coat. Ezekiel hit one in the brim of his hat as Dave let fly a whitish smear into another man’s dark beard. Other farm fowl, whether they flew like the geese or waddled like the ducks or simply clucked, all came to defend Bruce, attacking from air and land, biting, snapping, smearing feces over hats and frocks and boots. Depending on which direction the farm fowl attacked, they flew and ran, and defecated on the rabbi and his solemn congregation.

Someone opened an umbrella over the rabbi, a gift from G-d, as they scattered, running for cover in the direction from which they’d come.

It was too late for Bruce, however, with the curse set already in motion. He had been cursed to a life of death.

Isabella Perelman walked up to the feedlot fence where Juan Perelman stood. “Juan, do you honestly believe any of this will be of any good?” Her black hair was pulled back. She wore a matching riding jacket and britches, with black boots. She held a black derby helmet under her arm. The Thai laborer led the Belgian stallion by the reins with an English saddle strapped to him. Stanley couldn’t remember the last time anyone had placed him under such distress with the weight of a saddle, and in that saddle, a rider. Had it been her? If it had been anyone better, better her than anyone else.

To ensure that the rabbi’s curse had taken hold, and would remain intact from now until forever, the laborers draped a burlap sack over the bull’s great head. He moaned and pushed against them and moved sideways, but the laborers held tight as they twisted his neck by the horns. Bruce groaned as they pulled him down to the ground, his front legs buckling under him. The laborers rolled him over in the dirt onto his side.

“Juan, is this necessary? Juan, this is not necessary.”

“It’s necessary if the curse is to work,” he said. “There will be no doubts about it.”

Isabella padded the horse’s forehead, running her palm over his white diamond, and whispered, “There, there, Tevya, don’t worry. It’s okay, boy. Take it easy now. Everything’s going to be all right.” She placed her left boot toe in the stirrup and pulled herself up and mounted the horse, settling into the English saddle. She held tight to the reins as Stanley, aka, Tevya, neighed and backed up a couple of steps, adjusting to the weight of the rider.

“This is cruel, Juan. This is inhumane.” But her protestations came too late and fell on deaf ears. Juan Perelman was a pragmatist.

“We don’t need a bull anymore, anyway,” he said. “We use artificial insemination. He was just for show.”

She pulled the reins against the Belgian stallion and turned him away from the feedlot. They rode off at a trot along the road that divided the farm. He was rambunctious and stubborn, but she maintained control and held tight to the reins. She patted his neck along his mane. Riding parallel with the Egyptian border, kids from the village tried to hit her with rocks fired from slingshots.

“Take it easy, Tevya. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Stanley saw projectiles flying toward him and he spooked. Isabella Perelman held steady and guided him to continue broadside to the flying rocks and hard mud pieces fired from slingshots, with more than a few hitting Stanley. Although he tried to bolt, she patted his neck. She followed the road to the southern end of the moshav and turned him away from the border and out of range of the Muslims on the hill. They continued at a gallop away from the moshav and into the Israeli countryside.

Behind the barn in the feedlot one of the Chinese laborers, the Taoist, removed a scalpel from its case and in one fell swoop, sliced the bull’s scrotum. As he spread the scrotum layers apart, the testicles slid out onto the ground. He cut them from the blood vessels and placed the severed gonads on ice in a cooler for safekeeping. A salve was applied to the bull’s scrotum to stop the bleeding and help heal the wound. The laborer took a large needle with thread and sowed what was left of the bull’s scrotum shut. Once everything was done and put away, the Thai laborer removed the burlap bag from Bruce’s head. He rolled himself upright and stumbled, as he tried to get up. He stood unsteadily on four legs, his head swaying from side to side. He stopped, and then took a few steps back, backing away from his tormentors.

A neighbor from the moshavim, a fellow moshavnik, said, “This is not good, Juan. Castrations are done within days, no more than a month or two after birth, not like this. This is unkind. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“He has caused a great deal of consternation.”

“How do you think he feels?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Perelman said. “It’s too late to salvage anything. Besides, an old seven-year-old bull, his meat is already ruined because of his balls, just as my moshav.”

“Then it doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s done is done,” Perelman said.

* * *

Later that night, Stanley stepped from the barn filled with trepidation not knowing what to say or whether he should say anything at all. Bruce stood motionless next to the water tank.

“You have no idea,” Bruce said when he saw Stanley.

“I hope I never do.”

“It’s the first step to becoming ground beef.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to.”

“I wouldn’t want — never want to know. I mean, it scares me.”

“They’ll turn you into dog food once they’re done with you when you’re old and no longer of use.”

“I’m sorry for you, my friend.” Stanley backed away three steps and turned to run as fast and as far in one pasture of a 48-hectare farm as any animal could.

11
The Promise of the End Comes to an End

Two months after Blaise gave birth to the red calf, Beatrice lay in the middle of the pasture struggling, kicking in an attempt to give birth herself as a silver Mercedes tour bus stopped outside the fence. A Catholic priest leading a group of teenage boys and girls stepped off the bus. They were there to witness the miracle of the red calf that would soon alter the course of human history once and for all. As it happened, they also arrived in time to witness the miracle of birth as the bay mare rolled on the ground in the pasture.

In the barn, Boris ministered to the yellow hen. He promised her everlasting life and coaxed her into prayer with him. This she gladly did. “Trust me,” he said, his tusks bleached white from the sun. “I am the way, the truth, and the light.”

“Bog, Bog!” She scattered to the rafters as the Thai laborer came rushing through the barn wearing a leather apron, carrying a blanket, and a bucket of splashing water. The hen thought that had been a close call as she came down from the rafters.

“Through me, you shall enter life eternal in the animal kingdom, which art in heaven. I am the door: by me, if any chicken enters in, she shall be saved.”

She clucked happily.

“I am the Shepherd you shalt not want.”

In the middle of the pasture, Beatrice continued with the struggle of giving birth. The Reverends Hershel Beam and Randy Lynn had returned to the farm in time to witness the birthing process. They watched from the road as the Thai laborer, his arm buried to his elbow in her birth canal, dislodged the umbilical cord from around the unborn foal’s neck.

“I don’t know about you, Randy, but I’m getting hungry,” Reverend Beam said. “Do you like Chinese?”

“Do I like Chinese? Yes, of course. I dated a girl in Tulsa once, and we used to go to this Chinese buffet all the time, but it wasn’t going to work. She was a Methodist and had it all wrong. I never went back to that Chinese restaurant, though, after we broke up. Call me sentimental, but I still miss her and dim sum.”

Reverend Beam laughed, “Yes, well, pray we find a buffet nearby.”

“Look,” shouted one of the teenage boys. In the pasture, the mare was on her side as the Thai laborer pulled the foal’s front legs and head out of her birthing canal.

“No, children,” the priest cried, “turn away!” His efforts to protect the children from the horrors of childbirth were in vain. They weren’t going anywhere just as the placenta burst and splashed against the laborer’s apron and he slipped and fell as the colt plopped out onto the ground beside him. The teenagers, usually a cool and indifferent group, applauded and cheered the sight of the newborn colt. He stood at first uneasily, but once he found his footing, he was snorting and kicking up dirt in the field and went to his mother to nurse. It had been an ordeal for all involved. Stanley came out of the barn, snorted, and galloped straight to the colt. He did not like his progeny. He did not like the colt suckling from Beatrice’s teats as he did. Stanley was not warm or paternal toward the colt. The colt was competition for the affection and attention of the other mares even though there were no other mares on the moshav. In a matter of weeks, though, his attitude toward the colt would change once the laborers rendered the strapping young colt a gelding.

“Look,” one of the kids shouted. The red calf appeared alongside her mother from the barn as cheers went up from all quarters. These children in the care of the church were impressed.

Blaise and Lizzy came out to see how Beatrice was doing and to meet the new arrival. Beatrice’s strapping young colt was prancing about in the full sunshine of day. Also, out in the full sunshine of the day, life went on for Molly, the Border Leicester, and her twin lambs as they played in the pasture alongside Praline, the Luzein, and her young lamb. As Praline grazed or tried to, her young lamb Boo chased after her, wanting to nurse from her.

“Oh,” said one young girl, “the lambs are so cute.”

“Yes, they are,” said the father, “but they are sheep, neither divine nor a gift from God.”

“I thought all animals were a gift from God,” said another.

“Well, yes, they are,” the priest agreed, “but unlike the red calf, they are not divine.” He wore a black cassock with a white cord around the waist and tied in a knot at the front. The reverend father continued, “No one saw the two mate. Therefore, it is believed the red calf may have been conceived through the miracle of Immaculate Conception.”

The teenagers were suspicious of conspicuous consumption or anything any adult told them. They were skeptical and questioned authority, their parents, and especially priests who promised a glorious afterlife next to Jesus in heaven. These children, as with children anywhere, wanted to live life now.

“That’s the consensus anyway,” the priest added. “After all, the red calf is a gift from God.”

“Father,” a young boy asked, “What’s the difference between mating and Immaculate Conception?”

The older kids laughed. The father smiled and said to the boy, “I’ll show you later.”

“Hello, Beatrice, how are you?” Blaise said.

“I don’t know, Blaise. If not for the farmhand, I don’t think he would have survived?” Beatrice licked her colt.

“But he did, Beatrice, and he’s a beautiful boy.”

“Yes, but without the fanfare you received with Lizzy.”

“Oh, please, Beatrice, honestly. Do you think I want any of this?”

Besides the priest and his dozen charges, the multitudes had come out of trailers and buses and tents to once again witness the red calf.

“They come in droves to see Lizzy, but no one seems interested in Stefon.” Beatrice led her newborn colt to the pond to wash off the afterbirth, and to receive Howard’s blessing. Lizzy followed them to the pond, and Blaise followed Lizzy. When Howard saw the red calf, he was joyous to see her and wanted to baptize the young heifer.

“What about mine?” Beatrice stamped her hooves and splashed water on the sunbaked clay that surrounded the pond.

“Yes, of course,” Howard said. He poured water over the young colt’s head and body, washing off the dried blood and after-birth that covered the colt. When Howard was done, he looked toward Blaise and her calf.

Blaise said, “Go on then, baptize away if you must.”

And Lizzy entered the pond, splashing alongside the newly baptized colt. Howard poured mud and water over the calf’s head and the red around her ears and head and nose came off into the water and a dark brown appeared around the ears and eyes. She waded out to the middle of the pond to her neck, and when Lizzy came out the other side, the red fur had washed away into the water, revealing the chocolate brown under-tone along her body as that of her mother’s, with only the slightest hint of red from her father the former Simbrah bull, Bruce.

“Look,” shouted the kids, and they saw another example of why they should not believe what any adult told them. The red calf of legend or wish-fulfillment was now gone and, in her place, a rather nice-looking, normal brown-toned, mostly dark chocolate, half-Jersey calf.

“She’s brown,” Beatrice reveled with pleasure.

“Yes, she is,” Blaise sighed. “Isn’t she beautiful.”

Cries went up from the multitudes as people fell to their knees to mourn, to moan, and to pray.

Cheers went up on the Muslim side of the border and rifle fire was heard in the distance, followed by calls to prayer.

Blaise’s darling little red heifer had waded into the pond, was baptized, and had come out the other side a lovely brown as herself. Blaise could not have been happier as all the fanfare began to wane and people drove off in billows of dust clouds to points unknown, and where she couldn’t care less.

As it happened, the American ministers also witnessed the promise of the end come to an end. Reverend Beam said, “Son, this is all the proof you need to know the Jews are cursed.”

“What do we do now, Hershel? Take it to Pastor Tim?”

“It’s nonsense in the first place. Jesus will return before these Jews ever get their red calf anyway. Besides, we just want it to happen so they’ll see once and for all the one true Messiah is Jesus, and it’ll be too late for them.”

“Should we pray on it?”

“We should be rejoicing. The Jews are cursed. It’s as simple as that and God has spoken and the world has heard. The Lord is upon us and his will shall be done. Yes, take it to Pastor Tim Hayward, gentleman farmer, and pray on it.”

Boris stood under the barn, hidden in the shadows of the pilings. Mel, along with the Rottweilers Spotter and Trooper, approached the boar from behind and startled him.

“Something must be done about the Large White.”

Boris choked and coughed. A yellow feather shot from his jaws. Mel and Boris watched as the feather twirled in the air and floated to the ground. Boris belched, “As the messiah, it cannot be expected of me to live on our daily bread alone.”

“You shall not go hungry doing the Lord’s work.”

“It is never-ending, tiresome work.” He spat.

“Thank you for your keen observation in stamping out meddling witches from our midst. You have done us a good service by ridding us of a nuisance.”

“It was nothing really,” Boris said, “mostly bone and feathers.”

“Never mind her,” Mel said. “Another reason to eliminate the Yorkshire Baptist as the heretic that he is. Why has the red calf turned brown after he’s baptized her? Ample proof he is a heretic, and as such must be dealt with.”

“He preaches abstinence, so why can’t we just allow him to fade away?”

“He needs to be made an example of, a warning of what will happen to anyone if he goes against the teachings of our Lord and Father in Heaven. As long as he remains standing, breathing, preaching against you, and your reign from the shade of the fig tree, you’ll neither have the animals under your control nor be recognized as their one true savior and messiah. He has to be dealt with or you’ll never bring all the animals to your ministry, or into the fold of our one true church.”

“We preach at opposite ends of the same pasture.”

“Bring your sermons into the barn, our church.”

“Thought the barn was your domain.”

“As far as you can see and beyond,” Mel said as he stepped out of the barn, “all is my domain and you are here out of my good graces.” He stood before Boris the boar, the savior of the animals.

“I’ll go to the monk.”

“You, foolish pig,” Mel said. “Go to the monk. He’ll live high on the hog and you’ll enter heaven through his backsides.”

The two dogs growled.

“At ease, you’ll have your day in the sun.” Mel turned to the boar, “Go and minister to your flock.”

“I will after my nap.”

The priest, indignant, led the children away. “Come on,” he said, “get back on the bus. The Jews are cursed. Fuck, we’re all cursed. We’re all going to hell in a handbasket. Oh, dear Lord, when will it ever end?” The priest and the kids got on the bus, and all the pilgrims left, disheartened, sad that they’d have to wait a little while longer for the return of Jesus and the end of the earth.

When the Chinese and Thai laborers saw the newly brown young heifer, they went to get the moshavnik.

“El hijo de puta,” Juan Perelman cursed, not wanting God to hear him, or at any rate not wanting God to understand.

The Chinese laborer who was also a gentleman asked his countryman and Taoist what Perelman had said.

“I’m not Filipino,” he replied. “I don’t know Spanish.”

12
Curses Revisited

When Rabbi Ratzinger returned, along with members of his congregation, he was prepared. His congregation opened umbrellas against the possibility of falling objects or projectiles. They did not need to worry, though, for none of the fowl was around to make an impact. They knew what had been done was done.

Not knowing this, the rabbi and company stepped cautiously under tightly held umbrellas through the cow-pod spewed minefield of the barn lot and approached the once-great bull at the watering tank. The rabbi intended to reverse the curse that he had placed on the bull, now steer, ten months and three days before. He wished to formally forgive the bull, now steer, of his sins, and to restore him to his former glory with the help of G-d, and a miracle. “We are sorry, dear sir, for the mistake made against you. Please accept our humble apologies, and give of yourself once again to the Jersey cow,” Rabbi Ratzinger said in earnest. “We resend the curse put upon you, and wish you only good, and to return you to your former greatness. You shall no longer suffer an eternity as a result of our insolence and intolerance. Therefore, it is no longer deemed an abomination against G-d, nor a deed punished, for all is forgiven. You shall once again take up your rightful place, and go where you please, and with your masculine pride intact do what you please with whomsoever you please, please. Hence, go forth once again recognized on this, the Perelman moshav, and all moshavim of your presence, and be fruitful and bear gifts of offspring, and to offer that progeny as an offering to the Jewish people, and the world. Let us pray for the safe return of the missing testicles to their rightful place and ask G-d for the forgiveness of those short-sighted enough not to have known the consequences of their previous actions and wrongdoings against this great creature. Oh, dear Lord, please, unto this bull we ask that you undo our wrongs, and pardon him, this great and powerful Simbrah Bull who is, now as then, without sin. May the Lord return his name under the sun, make his presence known again, his seed fertile, repair the cruelest of cuts, and repair him, and his undoing to his former self among his people, his fellow-creatures, particularly his fellow cows. May they love him from this time forth to eternity as we reverse all curses of the firmament which are written in the book of the law and forgive him his transgressions.”

It was believed by the faithful since the bull had once mated with the Jersey, and as a result of their labors had brought forth a red calf, they could again, as long as he was returned to his former glory with his gonads intact. Unfortunately, it was too late for any of that. Bruce stood between the water tank and the gate he had once broken through, and the fence which now he rested against.

Bruce yawned.

The two American ministers were amused. They stood at the fence near the road and, from a distance, watched as the reverse-the-curse prayer service took place in the barn lot. The old black and gray mule passed by inside the fence and grazed along the fence nearby. From the hayloft, Julius, while clutching a paintbrush in his left talon, saw the expressions that ran across the faces of the three laborers, which he noted, and would remember for another time, but for what he didn’t yet know.

The laborers, embarrassed, their heads tilted, sheepishly stole sidelong glances at one another, adverting the rabbi’s and each other’s stare, for they knew where those gonads had gone, and no matter how earnestly the rabbi prayed, or the male congregation rocked and wailed, no miracle was going to return those gonads to their rightful owner. They were not going to grow back, come back, or be returned, for the three laborers had feasted on the rich delicacy only a few weeks before. Not two shared among three but a platter of many. For their labors, the laborers had amassed an impressive assortment of sheep, pig, and cow testicles. Once collected, peeled, egg and flour coated, salt and pepper added for taste, they were deep-fried to a golden brown. Then as an appetizer as Rocky Mountain oysters, or as the laborers preferred, swinging beef tips, along with a cocktail dipping sauce, served before the main dish of roast goose. “I have one for you, Hershel,” the youth minister said.

“What’s that, Randy?”

“A joke, but Catholics don’t much care for it. It’s about their beloved Virgin.”

“Let’s have it,” Reverend Beam laughed.

“When the Archangel Gabrielle visited the young virgin with the proposition of becoming impregnated by the Holy Ghost, she asked, ‘Will it hurt?’ To which the Angel replied, ‘Yes, but just a little.’ ‘All right,’ answered Mary, the little strumpet.”

In some cultures, among certain peoples of the world, particularly those who lived along the Ohio River Valley and Appalachia in the Southeast United States, it was believed that ingesting cows’ brains or pigs’ nuts would make one smart. It was also believed among the people of Appalachia and along the Ohio River Valley that they were God’s chosen, and heaven was theirs alone.

* * *

Scrambled eggs in America

From the Ohio River Valley region and along Appalachia, a rich delicacy of calf brains was highly prized and often served with scrambled eggs. And bovine spine, brains, and gonads were often eaten, along with pig and sheep nuts, rounding out the top ten dishes that were believed to make a person smart, but with caution, not to eat too many. In this part of the country, regardless of the organ served, whether cows’ balls or brains, the dishes were often collectively called “cows’ brains.” Therefore, a dish of scrambled eggs served with cows’ brains was a euphemism used to protect their young against the nuts and bolts as it were of the vulgarities of the nuts and balls that were being served up on their platters.

As with many people across the face of the earth, the three laborers considered a battered platter of calf or pig or sheep nuts a worthy dish to ward off the ill effects of impotency. Consuming the gonads of a male mammal, it was believed, would repair the gonads of the male mammal eater. The three laborers ate plenty. They feasted on swinging beef tips, believing that the more they consumed the better the aphrodisiac. Therefore, as reality would dictate, Rabbi Ratzinger and his congregation, no matter how earnestly they prayed to G-d, no miracle was going to reverse the curse and return those gonads.

The American ministers, unlike the Asian or the nomad, knew they would one day enter the kingdom of heaven for a life spent groveling at the imaginary feet of Jesus. Unlike others, Jews, Muslims, or Chinese, the ministers knew not only did they have God on their side, but by virtue of their resemblance to the Lord, they were His precious chosen few. They were content, waiting for the triumphed return of their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

“How could these people ever think they’d be allowed into heaven?”

“Who,” Randy said, “the Jews?”

“Any of ‘em,” Reverend Hershel Beam said. “I mean, where does it say in the bible any of these people, people heaven?”

“I don’t know, the Old Testament?”

“Well, it doesn’t. Take my word for it.”

“Well, then, thank goodness.”

“No, Randy, thank God.”

The Thai laborer, like his American counterpart, didn’t need an education he thought as he took a shovel from the shelf and commenced shoveling sheep shit from the stalls. Unlike their American counterparts, though, the laborers had most of their faculties and senses about them and were under no delusion of an afterlife in another realm. They weren’t even white, so how could they possibly even think they’d be allowed into heaven reserved for good, Christian folk anyway? Any good Christian Fundamentalist knew this, for the Bible told them so.

At the edge of the village, Muslim men sat perched on the hill overlooking the farm below with the sheep, and their little lambs, along with the goats, grazing in the fields, the fields of goat and sheep and little lambs, and knew where their next feast was coming from. It was the end of Ramadan and the eve of the joyous three-day celebration of fast-breaking called Eid al-Fitr, which meant trouble for the animals of the moshav, for the Muslims were in a charitable mood and hungry too. It was sundown. Several men struck matches to the ends of cigarettes.

13
Midnight Marauders

It was a moonless night and a cool breeze blew over the farm from the Sinai desert. Ezekiel and Dave perched in the great olive tree out in the middle of the main pasture.

“It sure is dark,” Ezekiel said.

“Yes, well, at least it’s not stormy,” Dave replied. There came a rustling from the dark, followed by a streak over the fence. “Did you see that?”

“What do you think I am, a barn owl?” Ezekiel said. “I can’t see anything. It’s dark.”

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

Mel rushed to the barn and told Boris, “If you want the farm animals to follow you as their savior, here’s your chance. Go save your flock.”

A flock of geese cackled as Boris ran up against them in the dark and they scattered. They quickly regrouped and waddled out into the rustling noises from the pasture. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they made out images, short-lived streaks, followed by sounds and voices they did not understand.

The farm animals, great and small, ducks, aforementioned geese, chickens, goats, and sheep attacked, protecting their own, as pigs, the pokers, boars, and sows squealed and fought off the marauders in the night. Noises came from the Egyptian side, the sound of fence giving way under the weight of men climbing over and falling into the pasture. Others fell back onto Egyptian soil with the spoils of the attack before anyone could stop them. Still more were chased along the fence line and prevented from any more damage than they had already wrecked.

Boris, with abandon, darted into the fields and bulldozed his way through dozens of robed images in the dark. He reared back onto his hind legs and kicked, rammed, and horned the raiders of the moshav. Someone cried out and splashed into the pond, followed by bleating. Someone else yelled in Arabic and was followed by peals of laughter. Others scrambled across the pasture, chased by a herd of wild geese. Ducks quacked, chickens crowed, and pigs squealed through the darkness. And from the cries heard in the dark, Boris must have spiked several men with his tusks as the tide turned. The animals turned back the rustlers, chasing them from the moshav, over the perimeter fence, and across the border into Egypt. The chickens crowed, the porkers squealed, and no longer from pain but pride. The animals had thwarted the raid. The fowl felt cocky for foiling the attack, and victory was theirs.

And from the safe sanctuary of the barn, Mel declared Boris the savior, for hadn’t he just saved them all, great and small, regardless of species, from the marauders and prevented them from taking more from among their flocks? The farm animals agreed and accepted this as gospel. “There would have been untold loses, and unfathomable pain, had it not been for the Godsend attention and power of Boris, our Lord, and Savior,” proclaimed Mel.

After Boris had been proclaimed Lord and Savior, an assessment was taken of the number lost by Joseph, the elderly 12-year-old, 900-pound boar. At 12 years and 900 pounds he never left the barn. Seven among them, seven of their own, had been lost in the raid, two sheep, two goats, including Billy St Cyr, the Angora goat, and three lambs, one of whom was Boo, Praline’s only lamb.

Molly consoled Praline. They huddled together in the barn with their noses pressed against the railing of a stall. On the other side of the railing, Mel told Praline to believe and to accept Boris as her Savior, and that one day she would again be reunited with her dear little Boo.

“Really?” She said, hopefully.

“Praline,” Molly said.

“As God is my witness,” Mel assured her.

* * *

“It’s the cost of doing business,” Juan Perelman said the next day. “It’s the price we pay for having a farm at the edge of civilization.” He stood against the fence in the road with the three farm laborers as they assessed the damage done from the night before. “How many did we lose?”

“Six, I believe,” said the Thai.”

“Well, okay. It could have been much worse. What did we lose?”

“By last count two sheep, two goats, and two lambs. One of the goats, I’m afraid, was the Angora ram.”

“Well, fuck, at least we got one shearing this year and the mohair to prove it.”

“He’d been sick lately from intestinal parasites.”

“Good,” Perelman said. “I hope he burns their asses.”

The men laughed.

“I forgot it was Eid al-Fitr. I get them mixed up and, well, I should have known. It’s what comes after Ramadan, whenever that is. It changes every year. Next year I hope one of you will remember, so we’ll be prepared for what’s coming.”

“Here comes trouble,” said the Chinese gentleman.

“Oh, do you know him?” asked the Taoist, rhetorically.

“Never saw him before in my life,” replied his countryman.

An Egyptian took his life into his hands when he crossed the border onto Israeli soil and approached Perelman and the laborers. He wore colorful blue and purple robes that blew in the wind and headdress. His identity was hidden by a scarf, and the Egyptian spoke on the condition of anonymity. “These Jews have in their possession a monster, a red djinn.” He waved his hands and pointed to that part of the moshav that bordered Egypt. “It was on this land, in this place, that these Jews set loose an evil spirit against my brothers, which harms, insults, offends all Muslims, and is an abomination to Allah.” Mel walked along the fence of that evil moshav to bear witness to the conversation, and to share with the others as needed later. The laborers looked to Juan Perelman, who said nothing. As the Egyptian went on, Perelman continued to listen.

“Praise Allah in all his glorious wisdom that no Muslim brother was contaminated by the filthy infidel swine. We only collect donations to the poor to ensure that they, too, can have a holiday meal and participate in the celebration of Sadaqah al-Fitr, the charity of fast-breaking.”

“I am these Jews. It is not our place to donate animals to dress your table or to feed the poor.”

“This place has been desecrated and made unholy,” said the shepherd. “The Jews have a compost pile full of pig shit that they will spread over this land as fertilizer, but it will bring death and destruction and nothing good shall ever come of it. This land under our feet is no longer worthy for my camel to piss on.” He turned toward the border and threw his hands up, tossing the purple and blue robe sleeves over his shoulders.

“Now we know what it takes to keep them from our land, pig shit, lots and lots of pig shit.”

No sooner had the good shepherd and concerned citizen crossed back into Egypt than he was found out by his neighbors, the faithful. The followers of the all-merciful and just God picked up stones and stoned him to death before he reached his village, which proved regardless of conditions of anonymity, the all-knowing, omniscient God, knows all.

“One day they may be our ruin,” Perelman said, “but today we are his.”

“The correct number of losses I’m afraid is seven,” said the Thai laborer. “We missed the Luzein lamb.”

“The Luzein,” Perelman said, “shit, that’s too bad.”

Standing outside the fence, Perelman and the laborers watched as Praline, chased after the Border Leicester twin lambs, running between them, wanting one of them to nurse from her.

14
Within Range but Out of Reason

Regardless of what the Jew had said, and the Bedouin dead, the Muslims were still not satisfied, not enough blood had yet spilled. Justice was not theirs. The injustice of it all still burned. The toll of it all still went unanswered. No calls went out for afternoon prayers as a lull hung over the village and a pall over the farm. Mel, grazing in the pasture, raised his head. His ears twitching, he sensed something adrift. Something was going to crack the silence and reverberate, spilling over onto the farm, but what he didn’t yet know. He smelled something brewing in the air, though, and it blew over the moshav from the Egyptian village.

Not willing to leave anything to chance and miss an opportunity, Mel went to the barn to find the Messiah, snorting grain in a trough. While many accepted Boris as their savior, others remained skeptical, and with the Jew bird parrot still roosting above them in the rafters, and the Large White still baptizing under the sun at the pond, Mel was determined to do whatever necessary to ensure his rightful position among the animals, all of them.

Mel sensed the silence and felt the rumblings coming from the village. In the barn, he encouraged Boris to go out and parade about the farm among his throngs of faithful followers.

“On such a day as this, it is imperative that you, as the Messiah, and you who wish to remain the Messiah, should, therefore, want to continue your reign as the Messiah by going out of doors among the faithful and prance princely about for they need the pageantry. Hurry, they’re waiting.” Mel knew the Muslims would surely enjoy the spectacle just as Boris would surely enjoy the parade.

Perched on a hill, the merrymakers licked their wounds. Still offended, not yet revenged for the attack against them as they had tried to gather meat for the poor, and their table, which disrupted the natural order of things. This was an uncharitable thing to do, for they were right to feed the poor. It was the charitable thing to have done. Therefore, it was now their turn to return the deed and answer the call, repair the toll, put upon them as a people, as the law dictated, and as Allah’s will would be done. The Muslims knew the attack against them had been led by the great Satan, the red djinn of the desert. Vengeance would be theirs.

Boris waded through his subjects as they bathed in the sun alongside the pond, and grazed in the pasture, and along the tiered slopes that led to the smaller olive trees, where mostly goats grazed. Mel saw the shoulder-held rocket launcher pulled from a corrugated cardboard box labeled “made in China.” Two men wrestled for the honor, until another man, an Alpha male of the Muslim world, a cleric, at the edge of the Muslim village, wrestled the rocket launcher from them. He placed it against his shoulder, adjusted the sights, took aim, and fired. The percussion spooked and scattered the animals to all corners of the farm as the fowl flew through the trees and pigs scurried about. The cleric’s precision single rocket scored a direct hit against Bruce, blowing him to pieces as flesh, blood and bone fell from the sky like hail over the pasture. A large section of carcass landed in a heap, and a solid piece of the steer’s rib cage fell near the road, not far from where Bruce had stood only a moment before.

The pigs thought it was a gift from God. After the carcass and dust settled, they scrambled over the pasture to lap up bits and pieces of bone and flesh that had splattered the grass red. Boris, quick on his hooves, scooped up some bone and meaty flesh himself as he continued his ministry. The laborers came out to chase away the others. They remained to prevent vultures from swarming the farm until Perelman told them to leave the vultures alone. Perelman told the laborers that the Griffon Vultures needed all the help they could get to maintain their species. “They need all the help they can get,” Perelman said, “and so do we. Mohammad’s faithful blind have done us a service.”

In his infinite wisdom, they chanted from the hilltop, Allah is both merciful and just, for not allowing the desecration of the true believers from being touched inappropriately in the night by the hands of Satan’s filthy infidel swineherd! And from their joyous reactions to the killing of Bruce, it was apparent to Mel that Bruce had been their intended target all along. “Idiots,” Mel said and retreated to the sanctuary of the barn. Blaise and Beatrice were in their stalls protecting their own while the sheep and goats were folded in prayer in a corner of the sanctuary. Molly, in her stall, nursed her twin lambs. Mel joined Praline huddled in prayer, hiding in her stall.

“Where’s Julius?” Beatrice whispered. “He’s never where you need him.”

“Seriously, Beatrice, what could Julius have done?”

“He’s always flying off somewhere.”

“He’s free to go wherever he likes,” Blaise said. “He is a bird, after all. He’s not one of us. He’s not livestock.”

“No, he’s not.”

To give comfort to all present, Mel conducted church service and led the farm animals gathered together in the recital of “Rules to Live By, the Fourteen Pillars of Wisdom” as he did every night, “1: Man is made in God’s image; therefore, man is holy, Godly.” The animals recited after him, with Praline’s voice above all the others.

Perelman told the laborers, “His meat was ruined already, and he was useless to us anyway. He took up valuable resources.” The pigs squealed with pleasure and ran amok through the pasture as they fought over the remains of flesh and blood in the grass and the dirt, eating what they could find of bone and morsels of meat. Perelman said, “Pigs are omnivores. We can’t expect them to live on the slop and grain we feed them.” As the others had taken cover and scattered about the moshav, the pigs remained vigil and hungry, and devoured all that they could rut scattered over the pasture. “Regardless of the nutritional value and vitamins, it doesn’t matter to them. This is comfort food.”

Trooper and Spotter, the two Rottweilers, fought over the skull and ate what was left of the steer’s brains.

“Juan,” Isabella said, “I don’t want those disgusting dogs in the house tonight, maybe not again, ever.” She turned toward the house without a response.

“What?” they whined, and ran for the barn and to Mel.

Juan Perelman told the three laborers that he was going to expand the dairy operation to both sides of the road. “We’re going to rid ourselves of these animals, sell them off to the Americans.”

“Even the red calf?” The Thai asked.

“What difference does it make? The red calf isn’t red anymore. They want the cow and the calf. Let them have them, the pigs, too, and the sheep. We have all we can manage now with twelve Holsteins and their calves. Besides, getting rid of the pigs should allow us some peace around here. I know it’ll make Isabella more peaceful.”

After the recital, Mel comforted the dogs.

“She didn’t say anything about them,” Spotter whined. “Why do they get special treatment?”

“There, there, it’s all right. You must remember pigs are special, a breed apart, superior to lesser animal forms such as dogs,” Mel said, reassuring Spotter and Trooper. “Pigs are more important than we are. They are procured for human consumption, whereas we are not.”

“They’re scraps for us too!”

“Now, now, boys, remember the pig population is protected, looked upon more favorably than the rest of us lower forms of animal and livestock.”

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