the nine dogs

The nine enormous dogs that burst into the big barn during the debate over the windmill are the closest thing Animal Farm has to a secret police and a personal army. They were not the original dogs of the farm—Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher—but the nine puppies that Napoleon had taken away from the sows soon after the hay harvest, rearing them in seclusion in a loft accessible only by a ladder from the harness-room. By the time they reappeared, they were already huge, fierce-looking creatures wearing brass-studded collars, and they obeyed no one but Napoleon. Their first act was to hunt down Snowball, who barely escaped through a hole in the hedge with his tail whisked free from a snapping jaw at the last instant. The animals, stunned and terrified, watched the chase and then the dogs’ return, wagging their tails at Napoleon in the same way the old dogs had once wagged theirs at Mr. Jones. From that moment, the dogs became the physical embodiment of Napoleon’s authority, replacing debate with menace.

Their role as enforcers was fully displayed during the mass executions that followed the exposure of Snowball’s supposed conspiracy. At Napoleon’s high-pitched whimper, the dogs bounded forward, seized four young pigs by the ears, and dragged them squealing to Napoleon’s feet. The pigs’ ears bled, and the dogs, having tasted blood, appeared to go mad; three of them even flung themselves upon Boxer. Boxer, with a single blow of his great hoof, caught one dog in mid-air and pinned it to the ground, forcing the other two to flee. Napoleon ordered the dog released, and the animal slunk away bruised and howling. But the dogs’ ferocity had already done its work: the four pigs, trembling, confessed to being Snowball’s agents and were promptly torn to pieces by the dogs. The same fate met the hens who had led the egg rebellion and a goose that had secreted corn. The air grew heavy with the smell of blood, and the remaining animals crept away in shock, aware that the old commandment against killing had been utterly abrogated.

Beyond internal terror, the dogs functioned as a tactical weapon. During the Battle of the Windmill, when Frederick’s men had blown up the mill and seemed on the verge of overrunning the farm, Napoleon ordered his nine dogs—his “bodyguard”—to make a detour under cover of the hedge. They suddenly appeared on the men’s flank, baying ferociously, and the panic that seized the human attackers turned the battle. The men fled, and the dogs chased them down to the thorn hedge, delivering last kicks. The victory was credited to Napoleon, but the dogs had been the decisive force that broke the enemy’s spirit.

Throughout the later years of the farm, the dogs remained a constant threat. They flanked Napoleon whenever he appeared in public, and they accompanied Squealer on his rounds, growling whenever an animal showed hesitation. Their presence made any expression of dissent impossible. When the sheep were taught the new slogan “Four legs good, two legs better,” the dogs were stationed nearby to ensure that no protest could form. The dogs also guarded Napoleon’s bed at night, one at each corner, and a young pig named Pinkeye was assigned to taste his food lest it be poisoned. In the final chapter, when the pigs had fully adopted human ways and the animals crept to the farmhouse window, the dogs were still there, gambolling around Napoleon as he walked upright carrying a whip. The dogs had become the ultimate guarantee that the revolution would never be reversed—and that the new order, however unequal, would be enforced without mercy.