Animal Farm: Chapter 9 George Orwell

Boxer's split hoof was a long time in healing. They had started the
rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were
ended. Boxer refused to take even a day off work, and made it a point of
honour not to let it be seen that he was in pain. In the evenings he would
admit privately to Clover that the hoof troubled him a great deal. Clover
treated the hoof with poultices of herbs which she prepared by chewing
them, and both she and Benjamin urged Boxer to work less hard. "A horse's
lungs do not last for ever," she said to him. But Boxer would not listen.
He had, he said, only one real ambition left--to see the windmill well
under way before he reached the age for retirement.

At the beginning, when the laws of Animal Farm were first formulated,
the retiring age had been fixed for horses and pigs at twelve, for cows at
fourteen, for dogs at nine, for sheep at seven, and for hens and geese at
five. Liberal old-age pensions had been agreed upon. As yet no animal had
actually retired on pension, but of late the subject had been discussed
more and more. Now that the small field beyond the orchard had been set
aside for barley, it was rumoured that a corner of the large pasture was
to be fenced off and turned into a grazing-ground for superannuated
animals. For a horse, it was said, the pension would be five pounds of
corn a day and, in winter, fifteen pounds of hay, with a carrot or
possibly an apple on public holidays. Boxer's twelfth birthday was due in
the late summer of the following year.

Meanwhile life was hard. The winter was as cold as the last one had been,
and food was even shorter. Once again all rations were reduced, except
those of the pigs and the dogs. A too rigid equality in rations, Squealer
explained, would have been contrary to the principles of Animalism. In any
case he had no difficulty in proving to the other animals that they were
NOT in reality short of food, whatever the appearances might be. For the
time being, certainly, it had been found necessary to make a readjustment
of rations (Squealer always spoke of it as a "readjustment," never as a
"reduction"), but in comparison with the days of Jones, the improvement
was enormous. Reading out the figures in a shrill, rapid voice, he proved
to them in detail that they had more oats, more hay, more turnips than
they had had in Jones's day, that they worked shorter hours, that their
drinking water was of better quality, that they lived longer, that a
larger proportion of their young ones survived infancy, and that they had
more straw in their stalls and suffered less from fleas. The animals
believed every word of it. Truth to tell, Jones and all he stood for had
almost faded out of their memories. They knew that life nowadays was harsh
and bare, that they were often hungry and often cold, and that they were
usually working when they were not asleep. But doubtless it had been worse
in the old days. They were glad to believe so. Besides, in those days they
had been slaves and now they were free, and that made all the difference,
as Squealer did not fail to point out.