turn. I plead with my eyes toward the men. They’re laughing together, talking softly, and they hardly even notice me. Perhaps if I stand here quietly, listening to them…
…he puts his hand on my head, still talking with the other man.
A loud barking sounds outside, a long wild howl. The man turns away. The howling grows louder. Light suddenly bursts into this dark cold place. A dog streaks across the floor, snarling angrily. He’s followed by others, many others. They snap and bite at the hearts that hang like fruit on a tree. I stamp my hoofs. We stamp our hoofs. The men are fleeing from the charging dogs. The eyes of the dogs are inflamed, their voices strained and frenzied. We kick. We lower our horns and drive against the barricades. There is no one to stop us. The dogs are calling, urging us to join them. Our great bull-leader crashes through the barrier, destroying it, splinters flying from his horns. We follow him, out of the house of death, into the night. Run, steers, run!
We leap the fences that sought to hold us. How puny such fences are. Trampling over them, we flee, feeling our strength, the surging of our full power. We race the streets. My hoofs sound loud upon the stone.
We follow the bull-leader, his muscles quivering and rolling as he looks around, leading us. We thunder and swerve, following his powerful hump—into bursts of light, into explosions!
Trample them and go free! We turn, surrounded by fiery light that strikes us. We whirl in a ring, held by the fire, struck by the light. Run, steers, run!
19
“Fellow rats, please, if you have any legitimate complaints write them in a paper and submit them in triplicate to the Newsletter.”
“WE WANT OUR RIGHTS!”
“Fellow rats, you are protected by Public Law 89-544 of the Eighty-ninth Congress of the United States, and I quote, to wit: ‘The Secretary shall establish and promulgate standards to govern the humane handling, care, treatment, and transportation of animals by dealers and research facilities.’ You see? You’re protected by the great law of these wonderful United States.”
“They dug out my eyes with a spoon today.”
“The better to see a scientific fact, my friend. It was essential.”
“They made some kind of horrible crust grow all over my face. It burns!”
“My stomach!”
“My spine!”
“My dear fellow rats, you’ve simply misunderstood Section 13 of the above-mentioned act, and I quote: ‘The foregoing shall not be construed as authorizing the Secretary to prescribe standards for the handling, care, or treatment of animals during actual research or experimentation by a research facility as determined by such research facility.’ You see now, don’t you? Once you’re here in the lab, the law allows our Learned Professors to do whatever they feel like with you. It’s a law with teeth in it, I’m happy to say.”
“Shove that law up your ass, Doc. We want humane legislation. NO ANIMAL EXPERIMENTATION!”
“Humane, humane, always harping on humane. My fellow rats, do you know what the American Medical Association calls those who harp on this word humane? Humaniacs! Yes, that’s what you are—half-assed Humaniacs!”
Ignoring me, the rebels start spinning their exercise wheels again. The wheels blur, hum, and once again here come the intuitive signals out of the whirling depths. I’ve got to jam these rebel broadcasts.
Perhaps if I slip over here to the laboratory television set I’ll get a nice innocuous program to distract the attention of these revolutionary rats. Maybe an exercise program from poolside in sunny California.
Clicking it on with my tail, waiting for it to warm up. Yes, a few deep knee bends is what we want, and some jumping jacks to slim the waistline, all done to quiet music. Here comes the sound…
“…special bulletin. A large pack of wild dogs struck at the stockyard approximately an hour ago, swarming over the unloading platforms and precipitating a mass stampede
…he puts his hand on my head, still talking with the other man.
A loud barking sounds outside, a long wild howl. The man turns away. The howling grows louder. Light suddenly bursts into this dark cold place. A dog streaks across the floor, snarling angrily. He’s followed by others, many others. They snap and bite at the hearts that hang like fruit on a tree. I stamp my hoofs. We stamp our hoofs. The men are fleeing from the charging dogs. The eyes of the dogs are inflamed, their voices strained and frenzied. We kick. We lower our horns and drive against the barricades. There is no one to stop us. The dogs are calling, urging us to join them. Our great bull-leader crashes through the barrier, destroying it, splinters flying from his horns. We follow him, out of the house of death, into the night. Run, steers, run!
We leap the fences that sought to hold us. How puny such fences are. Trampling over them, we flee, feeling our strength, the surging of our full power. We race the streets. My hoofs sound loud upon the stone.
We follow the bull-leader, his muscles quivering and rolling as he looks around, leading us. We thunder and swerve, following his powerful hump—into bursts of light, into explosions!
Trample them and go free! We turn, surrounded by fiery light that strikes us. We whirl in a ring, held by the fire, struck by the light. Run, steers, run!
19
“Fellow rats, please, if you have any legitimate complaints write them in a paper and submit them in triplicate to the Newsletter.”
“WE WANT OUR RIGHTS!”
“Fellow rats, you are protected by Public Law 89-544 of the Eighty-ninth Congress of the United States, and I quote, to wit: ‘The Secretary shall establish and promulgate standards to govern the humane handling, care, treatment, and transportation of animals by dealers and research facilities.’ You see? You’re protected by the great law of these wonderful United States.”
“They dug out my eyes with a spoon today.”
“The better to see a scientific fact, my friend. It was essential.”
“They made some kind of horrible crust grow all over my face. It burns!”
“My stomach!”
“My spine!”
“My dear fellow rats, you’ve simply misunderstood Section 13 of the above-mentioned act, and I quote: ‘The foregoing shall not be construed as authorizing the Secretary to prescribe standards for the handling, care, or treatment of animals during actual research or experimentation by a research facility as determined by such research facility.’ You see now, don’t you? Once you’re here in the lab, the law allows our Learned Professors to do whatever they feel like with you. It’s a law with teeth in it, I’m happy to say.”
“Shove that law up your ass, Doc. We want humane legislation. NO ANIMAL EXPERIMENTATION!”
“Humane, humane, always harping on humane. My fellow rats, do you know what the American Medical Association calls those who harp on this word humane? Humaniacs! Yes, that’s what you are—half-assed Humaniacs!”
Ignoring me, the rebels start spinning their exercise wheels again. The wheels blur, hum, and once again here come the intuitive signals out of the whirling depths. I’ve got to jam these rebel broadcasts.
Perhaps if I slip over here to the laboratory television set I’ll get a nice innocuous program to distract the attention of these revolutionary rats. Maybe an exercise program from poolside in sunny California.
Clicking it on with my tail, waiting for it to warm up. Yes, a few deep knee bends is what we want, and some jumping jacks to slim the waistline, all done to quiet music. Here comes the sound…
“…special bulletin. A large pack of wild dogs struck at the stockyard approximately an hour ago, swarming over the unloading platforms and precipitating a mass stampede
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