The farmer watched the horse watering his fields by itself and beamed. All of his training was paying off. The chickens laid their eggs and delivered them to the farmhouse now and the sheep had, with some difficulty, been taught to shear themselves. The pigs dutifully fattened themselves up and then, upon reaching a nice, plump size, killed themselves by clutching a knife between their trotters and then falling upon it like porcine Mark Antonys.
The farmer smoked his clay pipe and rubbed his stomach and smiled the content smile of a farmer who had never read any George Orwell.
Based on the prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers.