The Pig, The Dog, and Man
Animal Farm Remastered
Prologue: On the Barn
There is a barn. Real or imagined, symbolic or practical, every society erects one. It holds what matters: our food, our safety, our tools, maybe a John Deere lawn mower — and our dreams. Inside, three creatures live and work: the Pig, the Dog, and Man.
These are not metaphors in passing. They are persistent functions in every structure — be it household, nation, or firm. To collapse one is to imperil the rest. To conflate them is to ensure systemic failure. When each knows its role, the barn stands. When confusion reigns, so too does decay.
This is a story of provision, protection, and profession. It is not a fable — it is a blueprint. And it begins with the pig.
In the beginning was the barn, and the barn was with structure, and the barn was structure.
Or perhaps more truthfully: In the beginning was the Word.
Not deed, nor breed, but logos — the principle by which we name the roles and encode the function.
I. The Pig: Provision
The pig is society’s storehouse. It consumes in order to be consumed. It grows fat on surplus so that others might feast in leaner times. It represents the economy’s reservoir: wealth, production, and capital accumulation.
The etymology of “provision” traces to the Latin providere: to foresee. The pig, then, is the foresight of the farm, the reserve prepared for future need. But foresight bloats into foreskin when unchecked, and hoarding becomes hubris.
Think Bezos. Think Musk. Giants not merely in scale but in symbolic girth. Their downfall is not mourned. It is devoured. Layoffs? We feast. Divorce? We gloat. Public scandal? We season it with memes. Society revels in the fall of its pigs because they carry the myth of overprovision — and nothing is more delicious to a starved world than the roast of a hoarder.
But this is not cruelty. It is design. The pig is made to be feasted on. Its death is ritual, not tragedy. The failure lies not in becoming a pig, but in forgetting that provision is never the end. The pig that proclaims himself a man invites rebellion. The pig that dares guard the gate invites slaughter.
And so the pig must perish — not because he is evil, but because he is edible.
II. The Dog: Protection
The dog does not feed us. It protects the feeder. It guards the threshold. It knows its master’s voice and listens for danger. In society, it is the police, the soldier, the security force, the sentinel class. But more subtly, it is the instinct that says no entry.
Unlike the pig, the dog is not consumed. When it dies, we mourn. We host parades. We lower flags. But we do not feast. Why? Because the dog was not ours to feast on. It was ours to fear and respect.
Yet respect is always at a distance. When the police show up, the crowd parts. When the military marches, civilians watch from the sidelines. The dog is never truly loved, only tolerated — until its bite lands too close.
The root of “protection” is protegere: to cover before. The dog is always before the blow. It is the limb stretched out before the wound. It is not justice, but prevention. Not love, but presence.
We respect the dog because we know: without it, the pig becomes vulnerable, and the man sleeps unguarded. But if the dog forgets its position — if it bites the man, or grows fat like the pig — then its function fails, and it must be replaced.
And the barn, as a result, lies breached.
III. The Man: Profession, Command, Premise
The man does not feast. He does not guard. He decides.
He trains the dog. He feeds the pig. He surveys the barn. He is the sovereign node through which judgment passes. When the man dies, all perish. There is no feast. No guard. No legacy.
Modern life forgets this. It celebrates the pig, fears the dog, and reduces the man to a replaceable input — a node on a spreadsheet. But it is the man who maintains structure. Not for himself, but for continuity.
The word “profession” derives from profiteri: to declare publicly. Man does not merely work — he professes. He is the declarative center, the one who bears the name of the barn even if he did not build it.
He is not the smartest. Not the richest. But he is the one who knows: when to feast, when to fight, when to wait. He must learn the dialect of bark and squeal, and still know how to speak with silence.
A delivery driver repairing his Escape on the roadside is still man. A founder redirecting a domain instead of responding to calls is still man. The form is not confused for compliance. The function not funged, nor fungible, for fraternity.
And so the man remains: not in dominance, but in discernment. Not to impose, but to interpret.
IV. Collapse and Misrecognition
What happens when the dog plays the pig? Or the pig dons the man’s coat? Collapse. The algorithmic default.
Kyle Rittenhouse. Eddie Ray Routh. Cases where the dog or the man lost track of who commanded whom. Flatness led to death. When hierarchy is withheld in favor of assumed parity, chaos becomes naturalized. Man overextends. Dog unravels. Blood spills.
We gloat at the fall of billionaires because they pretended to be indispensable. We mourn soldiers with silence because they never asked for love. But when man dies — when the node collapses — the whole system folds. And no one is left to rename the roles.
The Greeks called this anomie: the absence of law. But it is not law that collapses. It is function recognition. The logosis lost. And with it, the barn.
Without function, there is no form. Without form, there is no word. Without the word, nothing holds.
Closing: All Creatures Are Not Equal
Orwell warned us: “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”
That was irony. This is structure.
All creatures are not created equal.
They are assigned function.
The pig must be fed.
The dog must be trained.
The man must not forget.
Let the barn remain built not on blood or belief, but on the word. For the word was function before it was flesh. The dog barks. The pig squeals. But the man names.
Goodbye — and dog bless America.
- alaskamoves.us