Cry Wolf is an Animal Farm for the 21st century: a brilliant allegory of the political challenges we face in post-9/11 America. The farm animals' struggle to maintain their way of life against an influx of change is a powerful commentary on the importance of balancing freedom with justice, and on how easily even the best of intentions can destroy a community too caught up with what is "fair" to do what is right. Lake's novel raises questions of in the heart of every devoted citizen: Does political correctness ever trump law? Should safety ever be compromised for the sake of inclusion? Are big government and judicial systems tools to create order, or do they provide chaos? " ""Lake writes vividly and characterizes shrewdly, producing an anti-immigration fable more polished than Orwell's anti-Communist satire."" —Booklist ""What seems, at first, a gentle fable about farm animals who enjoy a kind of ordered liberty, turns quickly into a grim allegory about man's dark impulse toward the collective."" —Laurie Morrow, political columnist, The Montpelier Bridge ""A charming and chilling fable that underscores the fragility of a world achieved with great difficulty and so easily undone by good intentions gone awry."" —The Reverend John Newhaus, editor in chief, First Things ""In the great tradition of George Orwell's Animal Farm . I can only hope that it will be as widely read and will be as powerful an influence as was Orwell's masterpiece in awakening civilization to its present deadly peril."" — American Spectator ""The inner logic of Cry Wolf is just right. Cleverly devised and well developed."" — Chronicles magazine ""John Lennon sang 'Imagine there's no countries, and no religions, too'. In his superb limpid allegory, Paul Lake imagines these very things with terrifying precision."" —Les Murray, poet and winner, TS Eliot Award " Paul Lake is an English and creative writing professor at Arkansas Tech University and the poetry editor of First Things . He is the author of Among the Immortals , Another Kind of Travel , and Walking Backward . He lives in Russellville, Arkansas. Cry Wolf A Political Fable By Paul Lake BenBella Books, Inc. Copyright © 2008 Paul Lake All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-933771-42-7 CHAPTER 1 Shep walked through the empty farmhouse, claws clicking on the hardwood floors, till he reached the back of the house, where a scent of peppermint and tobacco wafted from a flannel coat hanging on a wooden peg by the door. Shep squeezed through the swinging flap at the door's base and emerged on the other side into crisp autumn air. A breeze ruffled the fur at his neck as he looked across the barnyard where chickens and geese were already bustling about, preparing for the night's entertainment. Suddenly, a tall gray goose ran flapping across the yard, honking excitedly in his direction. "Better come, better come. There's been a breach in Sheep's Meadow. Hurry, hurry, hurry," she called. With a flutter of wings, Gertrude pulled up in front of Shep and gasped, "Better get out there. There's blood, blood on the ground. The sheep are starting to panic." Shep eyed the goose calmly. Gert was a fierce protector of the barnyard, but like most geese, prone to excitement. He gave her a moment to gather her wits, then turned toward the distant meadow and sniffed the air. The wind was blowing from the east, bearing a trace of damp wool and sheep droppings. No trace of blood, though. Still, Shep thought, he'd better have a look, or Gert would worry him silly. "I'll check the pasture," he said. "Keep the gates clear. I've got to bring the sheep in for the pageant." Gert arched her neck and gave him a searching look. "Well, I must say, you're taking this calmly. Nothing to worry about. Sorry to bother. Perhaps it's only a bear." She turned abruptly and waddled away, still honking and shaking her head. Shep nosed the breeze again, then bounded off toward the pasture. Skirting the garden, he rounded the orchard, where a few shriveled apples lay rotting on the ground beneath rows of bare-limbed trees. As he passed the orchard, two pigs suddenly emerged, still chewing half-rotten apples. "Where ya off to?" asked Barlow with a friendly smack of his lips. His chin glistened with sticky juice. "The wife and I were just having a little repast before the evening's festivities." Shep wrinkled his nose but maintained a polite demeanor. Pigs were filthy animals, if left to wallow in their sty. The trick was to keep them busy, working the farm and tending to their chores. As a result of such efforts, Barlow and Bertha were rather lean and tidy, as pigs go. Still, they bore looking after. "We've had a breach," Shep said. "I thought I'd have a look. And anyway, the sheep will need a nip or two to get them in on time." "Poor dim dears," Bertha sniffed. "Haven't got the sense to come in out of a hailstorm. Bless their hearts." As the pigs ambled away toward the barnyard, Shep headed tow