The grizzled farmer woke up with a start. Smoke filled his nose. He sprang out of bed, grabbed his bathrobe and sword, and rushed outside. The Ukrainian winter wind would probably freeze his nose off on a night like this, but better lose his nose than his life. Fire meant a pogrom, and pogroms meant you run, you fight, or you die.

Moishe intended to fight.

Half the town was already in flames, and bodies littered the streets. Laughing soldiers threw molotov cocktails at anything they saw; houses, livestock, people. The smoke that had woken Moishe was from his barn, already burnt so thoroughly it was a miracle his house hadn’t caught yet. The townsfolk who were still alive were just running in circles, too panicked to fight or even run away properly. Moishe ran, barely noticing the freezing rain that battered his eyes, and swung wildly at the closest group of soldiers he could find. Then a voice behind him laughed, and his legs were thrown out from under him, and then his head was pounding and his sword was gone and something shiny was swinging toward his neck - 

 *                         *                             *

“AAAAGGGHHHH!”

The brownish cow woke up with a start.

“You ok, Brick?” came a voice from the stall on his right.

“Yeah, just a bad dream,” came Brick’s shaky reply. “I was human, and my town was attacked, and all my friends were dying around me . . .”

“Man, human lives are crazy. Imagine living like that, never knowing if you’ll live to see tomorrow. . .”

“Yeah . . . on a happier note, Daisy heard Farmer Jimothy say he’s transferring us to the other side of the farm tonight. It’ll be nice to have a change of pace, no?”

“Yeah . . . hey, you ever wonder why they never transfer from there back to here?”