Roger Maxson - Pigs In Paradise

“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.

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.

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.”