The buzzer rang, announcing the end of the school day. Desks and chairs grated hideously across the floor. Mr. Venn, the socials teacher, risked being drowned out entirely by the sudden flurry of activity.

	“Remember, boys and girls,” he called out about the din, “pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine for tomorrow morning! And art students, Mr. Turner is expecting you in the studio on the double for figure drawing, yes? Have a good day!” 

	The part about meeting in the studio was met with murmurs of excitement. The mustalid known as Mr. Turner was the rather eccentric head of the “Art & Design” department for the entire district. He decided the arts curriculum not only for the three secondary schools nearby, but also taught part-time at the university. He dabbled in clay, pencils, digital art and photography, and his past pupils described him as “uncomfortably honest”. He always said what was on his mind, even if it was better left unsaid. Any question asked, even the most uncomfortably personal ones, were answered quickly and unabashedly, followed quickly by his trademark smirk and and a throaty heh. The only thing he hadn't revealed was the exact kind of mustalid he was -  he was too light to be a raccoon, too dark to be a mink, and he vehemently denied being a weasel. It was something his students debated often in small talk, much like the weather – always hovering over them, but nothing they could do about it.

	The art studio across from the chemistry lab was actually split into two rooms, two-and-a-half if one counted the old darkroom. It had long since been converted into a janitorial closet since film fell out of favour. The one closest to the outside wall was dominated by an ageing kiln and was mostly reserved for display. Past projects covered the sides of the room like wallpaper, and several paintings were hung to dry on clotheslines that crisscrossed the ceiling like some demented spider's web. The room beside it was what most people thought of as the actual studio. The desks, normally arranged into clusters of three or four, had been arranged in a semi-circular formation around a dark tarp tossed against the north wall. A similarly dark curtain provided the backdrop, and a third white tarp covered a person-sized object in the centre of hastily-made 'stage'. The tarp was fastened to the ceiling by a rope thrown over one of the exposed pipes.

	Mr. Turner, other end of the rope in hand, checked his watch and waited as the students filed in. “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen,” he grinned, “So glad you could make it, please find a seat and draw your weapons of choice for this afternoon's project. As you know, this project won't be graded  ipso facto, but it will expand your body of work from which to choose from when it comes to submit your year-end portfolios!”

	There was a collective eye-roll, to which the mustalid responded with a throaty heh. There were maybe two dozen pupils in total, at least half of them from the university course. The others were keeners from the various high school classes – he recognized at least two from Studio Drawing, a pair of females from the A.P. Art, and a few males from an elective class he taught called “Careers in Art”. It was an interesting mix, and he had half a mind to scribble down the rates and ratios of who came and who didn't – grouped according to age, gender, class . . . but that was a project for the math department.
	
	“Everyone ready?” he asked in his half-time announcement voice, “Then without further ado, I present my pet, Peggy!” He whipped off the tarp, and the gathered students let out a collective gasp. Those familiar with Mr. Turner's antics got straight to work, pencils furiously scribbling away on the supplied scratch pads. 

	“Peggy” was a rotund, porcine female. She had floppy, triangular ears, a wide, piggish snout, and clumsy cloven toes. Her skin was almost hairless and shockingly pink. She wore nought but a blindfold, and her arms were wrapped together and held up to the ceiling by the rope held in Mr. Turner's left hand. Her breasts were milk-laden and full, and her genitals were bare, almost hidden from sight by the obscene swell of a very pregnant midsection.

	“Say hello, Peggy!” The mustalid commanded.

	Peggy oinked with a sly grin. The class giggled. She seemed like she was trying to get comfortable, trying to fit somewhere between squatting and standing. Some members of the class seemed more uncomfortable than she was – young girls shuffled nervously in their chairs, boys crossed their legs and adjusted their collars. Some eyed the door, wondering if it was too late to make a break for it.

	“It's quite alright,” Mr. Turner said soothingly, “It's just a figure-drawing class. This figure just happens to be a little special. I wouldn't let anything happen to her!” He leaned to give the sow a peck on the cheek, and she grinned again, shuffling about shyly. “Isn't she wonderful,” he bragged, “I told her about you guys, and she just begged for the chance to show off her nine-month body for you!”

	Peggy grunted indignantly. Mr Turner furrowed his brow.

	“Oh fine,” he relented, “I had to convince her a little. Part of the deal was the blindfold. She gets such awful stage fright!” Again, nervous giggles sounded throughout the room. The sow suddenly spread her legs and descended into a squat, but Mr. Turner tugged on the rope and brought her swiftly back to a standing position. “Now, now,” he corrected, “breathe first – remember the breathing exercises I taught you?” The pig reluctantly nodded, standing with her legs as far apart as she could. Her chest heaved with each rapid breath.

	“As I was trying to say,” Mr. Turner continued, “before I was so rudely interrupted, is that Peggy's water broke this afternoon. I didn't know how long her labour would last, and I couldn't resist showing off this . . . unique event to all of you. It will be an astounding opportunity for many of you to expand your comfort zone and your artistic range, and Peggy here is only too happy to help, right?”

	Peggy oinked again.

	For a few minutes, there was relative silence. Mr. Turner pulled up a chair and sat down, giving the rope plenty of slack so Peggy could move around and even pace back and forth a few feet, pausing every so often to squat through a contraction. Cameras clicked, pencils scribbled, and loose paper flitted about the room. Some students made a hasty exit as soon as the opportunity arose, and a few others dribbled in, each getting a hushed one-on-one with Mr. Turner as he took the opportunity to show off his pet once again before a loud squeal broke the silence. 

	“Getting worse?” Mr. Turner asked, turning towards her, “Can't hold it in anymore?”

	Peggy nodded urgently and squatted low, her face twisted into a grimace.

	“Alright, now you just say the word if you need help. The nurse already knows you're here and she's ready if you need. Remember kids,” he turned to the class, “Safety first. We don't plan on having this turn into an emergency, but we're prepared just in case.”

	The mustalid held the rope firm, allowing the sow to squat to a degree, but clearly not as far as she would have liked. The tension on the rope forced her arms high and fully exposed her sweat-covered front to the students. Cameras snapped, pencils scrabbled, and a few droplets of moisture landed on the tarp with a harsh pat pat sound.

	Peggy's body certainly knew what to do. She pulled down hard on the rope and after only a few minutes and grunting and pushing, something began to push between her glistening labia from inside. Mr. Turner sat down in front, watching closely while trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

	“Ah, as we thought,” he said finally, rubbing his porcine pet's inner thigh, “Breech. And it's a little girl! Just like we hoped for!” He stepped off to the side and gave his students an unobstructed view of what was happening. There was indeed something coming out, but it wasn't a head – it was a pinkish blob of almost unrecognizable flesh, speckled with murky-looking fluid. 

	“A breech birth,” Mr. Turner explained, “is when the child emerges backwards, usually tail-first. It might also emerge foot- or feet-first, but thankfully this doesn't appear to be the case! Now let me just clean her off here . . .” The teacher grabbed a small washcloth, whipping it open and quickly wiping downwards between the sow's legs. “What a beautiful baby girl,” he grinned, “Look how pink she is!”
	Someone dry-heaved in the back row. The mustalid just shook his head. “heh. Part of being an artist is pushing the limits of both yourself and society,” he replied, not bothering to look to see who it was, “If something makes you gag, makes you squirm, good! Capture it! Remember it! Share it! And if it makes the rest of world squirm too, brilliant! If it makes'em mad, even better! This is the power of art! The power to stir the heart, to invoke rage, joy, lust, sadness, disgust, anything! You have that power! Use it! . . .But if it's too overwhelming,” he conceded, “Feel free to take five, pack it in, or come back another day. Remember, this is all voluntary!”

	While the mustalid was busy trying to inspire the students, the little porcine lump between the sow's legs had lengthened considerably. One of the legs suddenly sprung free with an audible squish, the piglet's little cloven feet flexing and exploring all this new space. Mr. Turner pointed excitedly. The flicker of camera-flashes intensified, and a few bold students shuffled closer to get a better look. One exceptionally curious buck got down on his knees right in front of the tarp, snapping a rapid series of photos looking right up between Peggy's legs.

	“Now there's an adventurous angle!” Mr. Turner grinned, taking a step back to give his industrious pupil free reign, “Watch the camera, son,” he reminded him, “It's probably not waterproof!”

	A mutter from the back of the class caught the teacher's attention. Two feline girls, a lynx and a cougar, were sharing a large sheet of paper, looking at the buck with obvious contempt.

	“Something to share, ladies?” The mustalid challenged, raising an eyebrow.

	“Uh,” the dusky lynx stammered, looking nervously to her partner.

	“Say it loud, say it proud,” Mr. Turner insisted, “This is an open forum.”

	“ . . . We were just thinking,” the bright-eyed cougar started,

	“ - Why is he so close? The lynx finished, “That's gross! Who'd want to see that?”

	Mr. Turner grinned, pointing at the two. “That, ladies, is an excellent question and I'm very glad you asked! Who would want to see a porcine breech birth from this close?” he asked rhetorically, raising his arms, “It's squicky, wet, obscene, probably bloody and it borders on pornographic. Who'd want to see that? The answer is, 'who cares?' Art isn't about what people want to see! It's about showing them something new! A literal different perspective! A fresh pair of eyes! People who see this fine hart's work will never look at a woman the same way again! That is what art is all about!”

	The two felines nodded, cowed, or at least satisfied with his answer.

	Peggy grunt-snorted as the second leg ejected, the piglet's entire lower body now dangling just above the tarp. She seemed almost 'stuck' in a deep squat, and the half-born piglet seemed to mimic her actions, pulling its legs up towards its chest as far as it could into a sort of sitting position. Another grunt and fingers appeared alongside the chubby torso, the piglet's left arm beginning to reveal itself. Peggy looked down with her blindfolded eyes, oblivious to the fact that there was a deer-boy not two feet away from her, reaching out and pointing his camera upwards between her legs.

	“Now, we don't want to touch the piglet yet,” Mr. Turner warned, “Any sort of 'tactile stimulation', as they call it, might startle'er and make her move around a bit.” He curled his fingers in the air, making imaginary quotation marks as he spoke. He always did that with what he called “science-y stuff”, usually any medical- or technical-sounding jargon that could easily be restated in layman's terms. 

	As the teacher spoke, he reached around behind the desk, pulling out a large, poofy-looking towel. He whipped it open and folded it neatly again into a little square before placing it underneath the piglet's dangling feet. The other arm slipped out from alongside the little round head, and Peggy gripped the ropes and grimaced, letting out a squeal that reverberated off the plaster walls. 

	“Here it comes,” Mr. Turner warned, “blink and you'll – oh!” Before he could even finish his sentence, the little piglet shot out, crumpling into a sitting position before flopping forward and curling onto its side. Gasps and whispers cascaded through the class like wind through leaves. There was a telltale scrape of desks and chairs sliding along the floor followed by hoofbeats, paw-pats and claw-clicks as the assembled student body rushed to surround mother and child. Few of them seemed outwardly interested in the process, but they clearly felt no shame in wanting to see the outcome.

	The newborn piglet seemed healthy and vigorous as could be; it was red-faced and screaming before the teacher could even get his hands on her. Some of the more squeamish students still seemed vaguely repulsed by the amount of  muck on her face and torso, but Mr. Turner quickly wiped her clean, letting his pupils get in a few last-minute photos or sketches before he swaddled the little life and held her up to her mother's breast. Peggy was grinning wider than most thought possible.

	“Thank you for letting me share this joy with you,” the mustalid beamed, “We need some time alone for now, but be sure to watch your inboxes – I'm sure these two will be back before long! Dismissed!”