Pigs In Paradise. Roger Maxson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ