Roger Maxson - Pigs In Paradise

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.”