Once upon a time, a village of animals had a leaking dam and cracked bridge pilings and two parties qualified to discuss it.
The roosters promised to restore the pond and marsh to their former greatness.
The peacocks promised a pond and marsh where everyone belonged.
The water continued leaving or becoming less hospitable.
No one said micro-plastics anymore. That was unsavory.
At the emergency meeting, a rooster held up a photograph of a broken fence.
“This is what the peacocks want for your children.”
A peacock held up a photograph of the rooster.
“This is why you must stop asking us about the dam.”
An old turtle raised her foot.
“My kitchen is underwater.”
“Under the previous administration,” said the rooster, “your whole house would have been underwater.”
“And under theirs,” said the peacock, “you would have no right to complain.”
“Can either of you fix it?”
The room grew uncomfortable.
A beaver had submitted an estimate six months earlier.
The first repair bill was three pages long. By the vote, it included a private swimming hole for a wealthy boar, restrictions on burrowing, and a declaration that eggs began at breakfast.
It failed.
“They voted against fixing your dam!” the roosters announced LOUDLY!
The peacocks introduced another bill. Shortly before the vote, a rooster slipped in a provision requiring every fish to purchase a tree.
“Surely you knew they wouldn’t pass that,” the clerk whispered.
“Of course,” said the rooster. “Have the leaflets ready!”
The peacocks discovered that a failed bill could raise more acorns than a repaired dam. Interesting…. They began drafting legislation with excellent titles. Roosters provided provisions chosen to keep it from passing.
Both benefited.
They were so smart.
The turtle received eleven letters about the Save the Pond Act.
None mentioned lumber.
One bill did pass.
The Wetlands Protection Act established a fine of fifty acorns for destroying a marsh.
The wealthy boar paid it before sending in the bulldozers.
His new development would bring in eighty thousand.
“Shouldn’t the fine discourage him?” asked the turtle.
“It holds him accountable,” said a peacock proudly.
“Without discouraging investment,” added a rooster cock a doodle’ed do’ed.
The boar’s accountant entered the fine under development costs, in his verbal statement. Officially, it was a great loss and inconvenience.
Boo fucking who one has to ask.
The marsh became luxury burrows with waterfront views. The frogs received a notice to relocate. Rainwater that had once settled among the reeds now ran toward the village.
At the ribbon cutting, both parties praised the balance between prosperity and conservation.
The boar gave each a generous donation.
“Pay to play,” he told his accountant verbally. On paper, it was a grievous injustice.
She asked whether he meant the fine or the donations.
“Yes,” he said. He polished his tusk for his date with his mistress who was also his accountant.
Behind closed doors, advisers rehearsed explanations.
Never say the water is rising. Say the measurements are disputed. Remember how we pushed for global warming? Remember the unseasonably cold weather and snow? Shh.. icecaps… shh.. displaced polar air.. shhhhhhh…. droughts.. shhhh… higher highers…. shhh… destabilization and rapid changes…lack of biodiversity and adaptation ability… shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
If the animals produce measurements, question who paid for the stick.
If they bring wet furniture, explain that furniture has always contained some moisture.
Explain faking it.
At the next meeting, the turtle brought a dead trout she had found in her pantry.
“The pond is in my house.”
“The pond is recovering,” said a peacock.
“There is no pond crisis,” said a rooster. “There is a turtle crisis.”
Both parties later circulated the exchange beneath the heading:
TURTLE ADMITS SHE HAS FISH.
That evening, the rooster and the peacock attended dinner at the Heron Club.
Membership required a sponsor, a substantial annual fee, and shoes unsuitable for walking through the village.
The boar had reserved the private dining room.
Outside, the animals were arguing over whether the turtle had planted the trout.
“Keep them watching each other,” said the boar, passing the development maps.
The owl laid out the advertising schedule. A frightening story at breakfast. An insult at lunch. Something involving the young before bed.
“Do they ever get a quiet day?” asked the waiter.
“We lose them on quiet days,” said the owl. “They start reading the paperwork.”
The rooster approved the morning outrage. The aging peacock requested something stronger for the evening.
By dessert, they had agreed on what to say about access roads, waterfront rights, and which public repairs could wait.
The aging peacock strutted. The boar wrinkled his snout at the ridiculous display, but understood. He was grateful for the peacocks’ vanity. It was a perfect grooming tool.
Through the window, they could see lights moving in the village. Animals were still awake, furious, answering one another.
The boar signed the last page.
“Excellent engagement,” said the owl.
The waiter shut the curtains.
Then came the advertisements.
During the morning weather, a voice warned that peacocks were coming for the animals’ nests.
During the evening music, another warned that roosters wanted their young to drown.
Grainy pictures. Ominous drums. Teeth enlarged for emphasis.
“Can I watch the cooking show?” asked the turtle.
“After this message.”
The message said her neighbors were vermin.
The next said only vermin would vote for the other fellow.
Then a rooster looked directly into the camera.
“Struggling to afford acorns? Rush us ten before midnight.”
A peacock appeared beside an almost empty donation basket.
“We know times are hard. That’s why we’re asking you to dig deeper.”
A squirrel counted the three acorns left until Friday.
One for supper. One for the little one. One for—
WE NOTICED YOU HAVEN’T GIVEN.
She turned the screen off.
Her phone lit up.
CAN WE COUNT ON YOU?
The owl who owned the station sold time to both parties. When the animals began turning it off, he offered an ad-free subscription.
The turtle paid three acorns a month to hear a badger explain soup without being told to hate a duck.
Soon, animals across the village were paying for a little peace.
The squirrel couldn’t afford it. She watched with one paw on the mute button.
The owl bought a house above the floodplain.
The turtle put her table on bricks.
At the next meeting, the roosters announced that the village faced a choice between freedom and tyranny.
The peacocks announced that it faced a choice between decency and ruin.
The turtle asked whether anyone had called the beaver.
“You’re oversimplifying,” they told her.
That evening, the dam gave way.
The animals spent the night carrying their young to higher ground.
By morning, both parties had issued statements.
Each had warned this would happen.
Each demanded another term.
The turtle found the beaver sitting beside his estimate.
“Is it too late?” she asked.
“For the dam,” he said.
He turned the paper over and began drawing boats.
Before noon, both parties arrived to ask whose name would go on them.
By evening, the boat bill required an airport.
The turtle was helping the squirrel lift her little one onto a floating door when a rooster and a peacock approached from opposite sides.
“It’s time to choose,” said the rooster.
“Silence is complicity,” said the peacock.
Behind them, their clerks were adding provisions to the boat bill. One gave the boar exclusive rights to the shore. The other paid the owl to explain why there were no boats.
“Whose side are you on?” they demanded.
The turtle steadied the door while the squirrel climbed aboard.
“You’re going to have to answer,” said the rooster.
“Your neighbors deserve to know,” said the peacock.
The turtle picked up a broken fence board and began to paddle.
By morning, both parties were running ads about her.
At the Heron Club, the rooster and the peacock congratulated each other on solving the problem of the public.
“They used to come to meetings together,” said the rooster.
“With questions,” said the peacock.
The boar raised his glass.
Outside, the animals absorbed another evening of accusations. The squirrel stopped speaking to her brother. The frogs were blamed for needing somewhere wet to live. The turtle’s little one asked whether their neighbors really wanted them dead.
At the club, the development maps were opened across the table.
The future had waterfront dining, a private marina, and no affordable burrows. The village appeared only as a shaded area marked FUTURE OPPORTUNITY.
“Have they seen these?” asked the waiter.
“They’re choosing sides,” said the owl.
The rooster proposed a toast to progress.
The peacock seconded it.
Downstream, the turtle paddled past a screen still standing above the water.
CHOOSE A SIDE. YOUR FUTURE DEPENDS ON IT.
She held the door steady while the squirrel pulled another animal aboard.
At the club, they approved the plans unanimously.
Somewhere some animals drowned.
Somewhere their accounts were deleted from a server.
No records. No accounts.
No way it had happened.
The End.
