The State of Pigs’ Empire
Part I
1. New City
In time, a city rose on the hill — New City.
It was a vast undertaking, built through the combined efforts of countless animals. Spacious apartments housed bears and wolves, while intricate mazes were designed for mice. Across the neighborhoods stood homes shaped like carrots and cabbages, their round doors opening onto lively streets.
Each species found its place. Beavers settled along the rivers, where they built channels to guide fresh water into the city. Foxes favored narrow alleyways with quiet nooks and hidden paths. Doves nested in tall, peaceful spires with open balconies and soft rafters, gliding in and out with ease. Porcupines lived in private stone alcoves, safe from accidental contact. Frogs thrived in carefully maintained pools and humidity pods, lit with a gentle glow.
Despite its size, the city was built with care. Parks, trees, and green spaces were preserved and woven into its design. Every structure stood as part of a larger balance. Everyone contributed in their own way.
But not everything ran smoothly.
Old habits proved difficult to leave behind. Many plant-eating animals still grazed on grass, gathered nuts and seeds, and stripped bark from young trees. Goats and sheep wandered onto manicured lawns. Deer damaged saplings. Rabbits dug burrows through carefully tended parks.
What should have been a minor incident became the breaking point. A dozen or so young rabbits were playing tag and hide-and-seek, digging tunnels through lawns maintained by foxes and coyotes.
“Stop! You’ll damage the roots!” A shriek cut through the air. A young red fox scurried out from the shadows at the edge of the lawn.
An adolescent rabbit, paws caked in fresh dirt, froze mid-dig. Around the lawn, other animals watched. An old goat tapped his hoof anxiously on the pavement. A large grey bull stood with furrowed brows, sniffing the air — whether his anger was directed at the rabbits or the fox was not entirely clear. A grey goose muttered that kids should be allowed to play.
“Get out of there! Immediately!” A large dark coyote strode toward the rabbit. A few of his companions began surrounding the lawn, some baring their fangs.
The shouting scattered them instantly. Piles of white fluff dissipated within seconds.
The rabbits bolted in every direction, paws kicking up loose soil as they fled across the torn lawn. A few slipped into half-finished tunnels, vanishing, then bursting out the other end and darting into the nearby bushes. Others froze, too startled to move.
One did not make it far.
A young rabbit stumbled at the edge of the grass, its nose hitting the ground hard before it scrambled upright — only to find itself caught between two coyotes who had rushed in from opposite sides. Their bodies blocked every path of escape, their figures towering over the trembling pile of fur.
“I — I didn’t know,” the rabbit stammered, ears pressed flat. Its voice was barely a whisper. “We always dig. That’s how we live.”
“You don’t anymore,” the coyote replied, voice low and sharp. His eyes narrowed, a snarl creeping up his jaw.
Other animals gathered at a distance, their voices overlapping:
“Leave the kid alone!” a gazelle bleated.
“He needs to be punished!”
“But why?”
“This isn’t the wild forest anymore!”
The rabbit’s chest heaved. “Then how are we supposed to live?” Its voice cracked with desperation.
For a moment, no one answered — the city still as a held breath.
Then the large coyote grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck, claws sinking into flesh.
The large bull, who had been watching in silence, had seen enough. With a huff, he seized the coyote and shook him hard. Caught off guard, the coyote released the rabbit, watching it scramble away across the torn grass.
The crowd erupted. Lions roared, wolves howled, birds burst into the air.
Not long ago, no one would have questioned it. A predator threatening an herbivore was nothing uncommon — normal, almost. But these were different times, and these behaviors — once necessary for survival — now threatened the fragile order of the city.
Frustration grew. Predators and prey alike voiced their anger. Protests spread through the streets. Some called for those responsible to be driven out.
After weeks of disputes and unrest, the residents reached a decision.
If the city was to survive, it would need more than cooperation.
It would need rules.
2. Creo, the Wise One
According to old stories, the wisest animal alive was an owl named Creo. He was a hermit who lived far away in the forest and wanted nothing to do with the city dwellers. He was, however, the only one who could read and write. And he was the Wise One.
It was decided to send a team of squirrels to seek him out and invite him to New City. To ensure they stayed on course, a few hawks volunteered to escort them and keep them focused on the mission.
Nobody knew how old he was. Some squirrels claimed Creo was 120 years old. But squirrels aren’t known for their memory, so it was hard to tell. Still, the owl Creo was indeed very old. He grunted and agreed to help — on one condition: that they leave him alone afterward, as he was a hermit.
As he flew into New City, his large yellow eyes widened.
“I have never seen such wonderful structures in my life,” he hooted.
Creo spent a short time familiarizing himself with the city. After observing it carefully, he declared that the rules for New City had already taken shape in his head.
He then set down twelve rules that he believed would keep New City organized and civil:
1. The city shall have rules that all must abide by.
2. Each citizen shall be entitled to a habitat suitable to their species, size, and needs, as determined by the city planners.
3. No animal shall speak ill of another species. All creatures shall be treated with respect in word and deed.
4. Violence between citizens is forbidden. Disputes are to be resolved through the Council of Mediation or, in extreme cases, the city court.
5. No citizen shall damage city structures, build or dig without authorization, cut trees, or collect fruits, nuts, and seeds without permission.
6. Green spaces, rivers, and air corridors shall be preserved for the shared benefit of all species. Any expansion must undergo environmental review.
7. All food items are to be gathered, accounted for, and used to produce a variety of meals suitable to the tastes and nutritional needs of all city residents.
8. All waste must be collected, recycled when possible, and composted when recycling is not feasible.
9. Citizens shall gather and elect a mayor and judges once a year.
10. The mayor shall appoint the city government.
11. The government shall hire the best-qualified candidates to oversee rule enforcement, construction and demolition, food safety, city improvements and beautification, emergency response, jail operations, court systems, city patrol, and education.
12. Every young animal must attend school until they come of age. Schools shall teach history, harmony, appropriate crafts, arts, science, and the city rules.
When he presented the list before the citizens, with great import, the crowd erupted in cheers.
“How can we remember these rules, O Wise Creo?” someone called from the crowd.
“Well, well, my dear, I’m not planning to take this away from here.” Creo waved a scroll. “You!” He pointed at the one who had asked — a young crow. “Younglings will read it, of course!”
“But I can’t read,” someone quipped.
“What?” Creo’s large yellow eyes grew even larger.
“I can’t read either!” yelled another young voice.
“Neither can I!” came a low, resounding bass.
“I can’t even write!” bleated a lamb.
“Me too!” — voices echoed until the crowd dissolved into noise.
Creo’s eyebrows rose, then furrowed, his eyes darkened. He raised his mighty wing and swept it down, demanding silence.
“Can anyone read?”
Silence was the response.
After a long and confusing deliberation, it was decided that someone had to volunteer to learn to read and write. The doves volunteered en masse — they were quick learners with excellent memories. Crows and magpies joined, though not in large numbers. Creo reluctantly agreed to teach them, and more importantly, how to teach others.
New City was a grand experiment: predators and prey living side by side, governed by order instead of appetite. Laws replaced fangs. Schools replaced dens. Factories rose, churning out tidy little packages of food that mimicked the past — crunchy dried leaves for the deer, sweet roots for the rabbits, and protein-rich crackers for the wolves, foxes, and hyenas, made to taste almost like meat. But the taste was not quite right, some complained. The same voices said that plant-eaters had it easy — they still ate what their bodies remembered. Predators were told to be satisfied with texture, with imitation, with an echo of blood. Many left. The few that stayed watched silently, growing lean and resentful behind the smile of civility.
Still, the city thrived. Doves became teachers. Crows ran the schools, efficiently and obediently. Pigs cooked and delivered food. Squirrels organized the food storage. Raccoons cleaned the streets. It looked like peace — for a while.
Before leaving for his forest, the old owl Creo, the Wise One, said:
“Remember, animals of the city: only Nature has laws. And her laws cannot be broken.
“Your rules are not laws — they are merely letters written on pieces of paper. Which means they can be broken. And there will be animals among you who will want to break them. After all, we are all animals. It is up to every single one of you to make sure that those who break the rules are brought to justice. And that the wrongs are corrected as swiftly as the rules allow.
“And remember this above all else: no rule shall be used as a weapon against the very citizens it was written to protect. The moment that happens, it is not the rule that has failed — it is you.
“You all, as city dwellers, have the right to elect a new mayor and judges and to change the rules if necessary. But before you agree to any changes, see how they affect you, your siblings, your neighbors — even someone you may not know very well.”
Creo turned to leave. Then paused. The setting sun set his plume ablaze. He twisted his head to look back at the crowd one last time — sunlight flashed momentarily, reflecting off his large eyes of deep gold — and, grunting, added:
“I just don’t want my work to be wasted. We are all animals, after all. Some are more animal than others, and thus need to work harder to become civilized — meat-loving and plant-loving animals alike.” He murmured, almost to himself: “Although, in a sense… I am no different.”
He turned again, now facing the setting sun, and took off. His silhouette remained visible for a while against the red-orange sky, then dissolved into the air.