A Corner of the Expanded Farm
The farm was not what it once was. In the early days, when revolution was fresh and ideals still clung to the air like morning mist, everything had been simpler. But time had passed, and the farm had grown—stretched beyond its original boundaries, swelling with new workers, new projects, new ambitions. The old barn where the rebellion had been planned was now but a relic, overshadowed by newer, larger structures built to house the farm’s ever-expanding operations.
And it was in one such corner of the farm, a place where the mud never quite dried and the fences leaned just slightly out of shape, that the latest reform was underway.
The Pig, now fatter than ever, stood on a raised platform of bundled hay, surveying the animals assembled before him. Though his body sagged with age, his eyes were as sharp and calculating as ever. He took in the sight of the workers—some fresh, eager recruits; others, like the Owl, weary veterans who had seen reforms come and go.
“Comrades,” the Pig began, his voice thick with self-importance, “we stand on the precipice of a great new era! The world is changing, and we must change with it. Efficiency, speed, adaptability—these are the keys to our continued success. To achieve this, we must reform! Leadership must be streamlined, production must be optimized, and—above all—each and every one of you must give your utmost for the good of the farm!”
Murmurs spread among the crowd. The young ones nodded eagerly, while the older animals exchanged knowing glances. They had heard it all before.
“Innovations will be encouraged!” the Pig continued. “Obstacles will be removed! The outdated ways of working will be replaced with modern efficiency!”
At that moment, from one of the distant storage sheds, there came a tremendous crash—wood splintering, metal clattering to the ground. The animals turned their heads, but no one moved to investigate. Spilled supplies, damaged tools, misplaced materials—these things had become routine under past reforms. No one had time to deal with them now.
Orders from Above
At the heart of this reform was the farm’s shining jewel—a project that had once been hailed as the future, the farm’s greatest achievement. And overseeing it, though against his better judgment, was the Owl.
For months, he and a small team of skilled horses and diligent sheep had labored to build something truly remarkable. Their plans were meticulous, their work precise. They had believed, for a time, that perhaps this would be different. That their efforts might amount to something lasting.
Then came the orders.
Perched atop a wooden beam in the half-built granary, the Parrot fluffed his feathers before announcing in his shrill, nasal voice, “The Pig has spoken! This project is taking too long! You must accelerate your progress at once!”
The Owl, hunched over a worktable, did not look up. “We are working at full capacity already,” he said evenly. “If we rush, we risk compromising everything.”
“Bah! Bah!” the Parrot flapped his wings, his head bobbing in excitement. “That is defeatist thinking! The Pig says there is too much waste, too many unnecessary processes. We must work smarter, not harder!”
“And what, precisely, do you suggest we cut?” the Owl asked, lifting his gaze. “Materials? Inspections? Rest?”
The Parrot preened himself and replied, “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know! I am only repeating what the Pig has said! But surely, you can find a way.”
Beside the Owl, a heavyset Ostrich let out a slow, theatrical sigh. “Now, now, let’s not turn this into an argument,” he drawled. “These things have a way of working themselves out. Best to simply go along, eh? No need to make a fuss.”
The Owl clenched his talons. He had spent years watching reforms unfold the same way: grand proclamations, hasty decisions, then disaster. He knew where this was heading.
The Collapse
It was not failure that doomed the project, but success in the wrong direction.
For weeks, the Pig had spoken of efficiency, of innovation, of progress at any cost. His words were vague, his intentions veiled in layers of noble rhetoric, but to those who knew how to listen—those like the Parrot—it was a command.
And so, behind the scenes, the Parrot went to work.
He flitted from one worker to another, never giving orders outright but dropping carefully chosen phrases:
“The Pig says we must be resourceful.”
“The Pig believes a little risk is sometimes necessary.”
“The Pig trusts us to find creative solutions.”
He whispered to the supply managers, hinting that alternative materials would be just as good. He reassured the foremen that certain inspections were merely a formality. He reminded the laborers that real dedication meant pushing past their limits.
The Owl saw what was happening. He argued, he protested, but each time, the Parrot tilted his head, blinked his dull, beady eyes, and said, “You must not resist progress.”
When the first cracks appeared in the structure, when the calculations no longer aligned, the Owl raised the alarm. He gathered reports, presented the evidence, showed the risks. But by then, it was too late.
The Pig, comfortably seated atop his dais of straw, merely nodded as he listened. “Ah, I see. Well, you are the expert, Owl. If you say the project is at risk, then surely you should have fixed it.”
And with that, the matter was settled.
By the time the investors arrived, the project was barely holding together. The materials were substandard, the support beams uneven, the finishing sloppy. The investors walked through the site, their faces growing darker with each step.
Then came the final blow. A single tap against a key support, and the entire thing shuddered. The investors turned to one another, whispered in hushed tones, and then, without another word, left.
Funding was withdrawn. The project, once the pride of the farm, was abandoned.
But not before blame was assigned.
A Scapegoat is Chosen
The next morning, a meeting was called. The Owl was summoned before the crowd, standing alone as the Pig addressed the assembly from his usual perch.
“We placed great trust in the Owl,” the Pig said, shaking his head in a gesture of solemn regret. “And yet, we have been met with failure.”
A hush fell over the animals. Some looked to the Owl, their eyes filled with something like guilt. Others, those who had been through this before, simply looked away.
“But do not despair!” the Pig continued, his voice rising. “Reform is never easy! Sacrifices must be made for progress to continue! The farm must move forward, and we cannot allow past mistakes to hold us back!”
As the Pig spoke, the Owl remained silent, his sharp talons gripping the wooden beam beneath him. And then, just softly enough that only those closest to him could hear, he began to hum. It was an old tune—one that had once been sung by all, back when the farm had been young and full of hope. A song of unity, of purpose, of a dream that had long since faded.
The Pig’s ears twitched at the sound. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, turning his attention back to the crowd.
Among the workers, some perked up at the melody, their ears twitching as if grasping at a memory just beyond reach. The tune was familiar, achingly so. And yet, no matter how hard they tried, none of them could recall its name.
The Ostrich yawned, tilting his head lazily. “A shame, a real shame,” he murmured. “But, well, we’ll just have to start fresh, won’t we?”
The Owl said nothing. He had known this moment would come.
And sure enough, before the day was over, a new project was announced. The workers were reassigned. The cycle began again.
And in some dark corner of the farm, where the ground was still soft from spilled oil and broken wood, the next scapegoat was already being chosen.