Boxer's strength

Boxer, the enormous cart-horse introduced near the beginning of the story, is defined from his first appearance by sheer physical magnitude. Nearly eighteen hands high and as strong as any two ordinary horses put together, he possesses a white stripe down his nose that gives him a deceptively stupid look, yet his steadiness of character and tremendous powers of work earn universal respect. He is not a creature of quick intelligence, but his body is a force of nature, and the other animals instinctively rely on it.

After the Rebellion, Boxer's strength becomes the backbone of the farm's labor. During the hay harvest he seems more like three horses than one; there are days when the entire work of the farm appears to rest upon his mighty shoulders. He arranges with a cockerel to be called half an hour earlier than anyone else, volunteering for the hardest tasks before the regular day begins. His personal motto, "I will work harder," accompanies every effort, and he leads the other animals by example, hauling, pushing, and pulling without complaint.

When the windmill project begins, Boxer's strength proves indispensable. Dragging boulders up the quarry slope inch by inch, his breath coming fast, his hoofs clawing the ground, and his sides matted with sweat, he repeatedly prevents the load from slipping when other animals are dragged downhill. Clover warns him to avoid overstrain, but he never listens, extending his work hours and even laboring alone at night by the light of the harvest moon. Nothing could be achieved without him, and his strength seems equal to that of all the rest of the animals combined.

Yet Old Major, in his founding speech, had already foreseen the cruel endpoint of such power: the very day those great muscles lose their strength, Mr. Jones will sell Boxer to the knacker, who will cut his throat and boil him down for the foxhounds. Boxer never questions this destiny; he adopts the supplementary maxim "Napoleon is always right" and continues to drive himself beyond his limits. His strength, once the engine of liberation, becomes the instrument of his own exhaustion and eventual destruction, a paradox that the narrative leaves unresolved as the other animals watch his decline.