It’s all over, even old Boxer has turned on me. I should have had him made into glue in ’62 but I’d worked alongside the cart horse so many years I couldn’t bear to part with him. I just don’t understand, I’ve always been so good to all my animals, the last few years have been a bit lean around here but they’ve always had the best our small holding could afford.
We were happy when Old Major, my albino Lancashire, was alive. The other animals loved his calm wisdom: I would often see them arrayed in the barn like theatre goers listening intently to him. It was the new generation of pigs that started the trouble.
They’re all sweet animals really, just not too bright, so when Snowball started spouting his equality rhetoric it was easy to confuse them. And with Napoleon (last year’s spring fair champion at 232lbs) for muscle any dissenters were quickly silenced.
I can’t understand why it started with the pigs, they have such comfortable, happy lives: the best slop, no work and a lovely sty. They must know they can’t run a farm: what does a pig know of accounting, budgets and markets. Soon enough they’ll all be starving and beg me to take over again.
I didn’t invent farming; this is how the system works: we all have to do our part and someone has to be in charge.