Roger Maxson
Pigs In Paradise
“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.