The name “Fancy Pants” came to him second-hand, like most things on North Star Farm. Old Shearson had noticed it first: the strange white streaks down his hind legs, freckled with black spots, as if he’d stepped neatly into a pair of patterned trousers someone had left hanging in the pasture. From behind, he looked dressed for an occasion no one else had been invited to. The black wool that ringed his eyes and spread in tufts across his white face only added to the effect. It made him look like he’d pressed his muzzle against a sooty window, leaving two dark smudges where curiosity had lingered too long. The result was a perpetual expression of surprise or suspicion - scholarly, almost criminal. He accepted the nickname without protest, though sometimes, watching Chester preen before his phone, he’d wonder why humans cared so much about how things appeared rather than what they were.
He didn’t care for Chester Gilt, but he cared for the fence. He was not, strictly speaking, a leader - he lacked Shearson’s weight and Janet’s powers of observation - but he had a knack for seeing how things fit together. Even when hungry, which was most of the time, he measured the world in angles and gaps.
The section in question was a ragged tear, chewed open years ago by a tractor with a runaway driver and left unrepaired since. A makeshift brace - a board scavenged from an old shipping pallet - was already in place, wedged between upright and ground. Fancy Pants stood upright, balanced on hind legs, and worked the nail with his mouth. He was careful not to bite too hard, having learned that rust tasted worse than dried blood.
One, two, three taps of the rock. He turned his head, adjusted the nail, kept going. The work was slow and the reward small, but each hammer strike rang through the misty air with the satisfaction of purpose.
He didn’t look up when Chester approached, though he could smell the chemical tang of shampoo before he heard the boots.
