Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, and he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he claims dominion over all animals. He sets us to work, returns only the bare minimum to keep us from starving, and keeps the rest for himself. Our labour tills the soil, our dung fertilizes it, and still, not one of us owns more than our bare skin. You cows, look at yourselves—how many thousands of gallons of milk have you produced this past year? And what has become of it, milk that should have nurtured strong calves? Every drop has gone down the throats of our enemies. And you hens, how many eggs have you laid, and how many of those ever hatched into chicks? The rest have gone to have you laid. And you, Clover, where are the four foals you bore, who should have supported and comforted you in your old age? Each was sold at just a year old—you will never see them again. For all your labour in the fields and your four confinements, what have you gained except bare rations and a stall?
Even the lives we do live are cut short, denied their natural span. I do not grumble, for I am among the fortunate. I am twelve years old and have borne over four hundred children. Such is the natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end. You young porkers sitting before me, each of you will scream your lives out at the block within a year. This is the fate that awaits all of us—cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even horses and dogs share no better end. Boxer, the very day your great muscles fail you, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will slit your throat and boil you down for the foxhounds. And the dogs, when old and toothless, are tied with a brick and drowned in the nearest pond. (356 words)
[Extracted with edits from George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”]