Mitt Romney was in fine form at the Republican Debate on Saturday night, maintaining his dignity while the second-tier candidates squabbled over who was the most conservative of the bunch. Paul, Santorum, and Gingrich strutted and puffed up their hackles, causing no end of consternation for one another. Romney kept a cool gaze on a distant competitor; he had no reason to rile himself up. Finally, he put an end to the petty primary politicking. “The president is trying to take responsibility for the economy,” he said, in response to a recent report about jobs growth. “It’s like the rooster taking responsibility for the sunrise – he didn’t do it.”
On Sunday, I checked in with Franklin to see how much credit he takes for the sun rising in the east. He was over behind the compost bin, watching his flock. Since we took out the drakes, the three remaining ducks cling to his shadow. Bright, Montaigne, and Pong circled the Speckled Sussex rooster like adoring fans eager for an autograph. Franklin did not look flattered. The ducks were cramping his style, making it hard for him to do his roosterly duty with a nearby Rhode Island Red. He had little time to talk about planetary matters.
“I have too many responsibilities to take on another,” he said, almost tripping over Montaigne, who was undulating her long neck in front of him like an inchworm on the crawl. “Romney must be talking about roosters who don’t have to work for a living. Me? I’m always having to find the girls new places to scratch and to make sure those silly pullets don’t go wandering off into the forest. And then there are hawks to watch out for…” As Franklin described his endless tasks, he kept a sharp eye on a covey of Buff Orpingtons who had wandered behind the goat shed, out of sight. Franklin rose up on his tiptoes and let out a call, “Hey! I told you girls to stay close by! You all come back here!” He took off down the hill, the three ducks waddling frantically after him, “No, no, don’t leave us, don’t leave us behind.” Franklin clearly was too busy to think about the sun.
“What about you, Beaumont?” I asked the No. 2 rooster who had little to do with his time. “Do you take responsibility for the sunrise, Beaumont?”
The Dorking Dandy cocked his head and considered the matter. “First, roosters start crowing well before sunrise. Second, our brains are too small to invent that sort of causal explanation. The idea that my actions affect the sun in its path is not something a chicken would ever think of. You’ve got to be a human for that big an idea.”
“A certain kind of human,” I pointed out, “one with presidential ambitions.”
“I’ve noticed,” said Beaumont, giving me a long look, “that when people talk about chickens, they are actually saying more about themselves than about poultry.”
“Good point,” I said, feeling a tickle of heat rise in my cheeks and quickly looking away. “So what do you think Romney’s comment says about Romney?” I asked, when I had regained my composure.
“That would take a human brain to figure out,” he said, rushing off to take advantage of Franklin’s momentary absence from the flock.
According to the Internet, roosters crow in order to establish their territory. When there are several roosters in the neighborhood, each one tries to be the first to establish his dominion in the new day. In these parts, Franklin is the first to sound off. The Chanticleer of Holland Hill, he breaks the silence of the night at about 2:15 a.m.. In the winter, the sun doesn’t come up for another five hours. By the time the rosy fingers of dawn slide over Monadnock’s crest, Franklin and the other chickens are busy looking for food. By then, the rooster hierarchy has been well established so the sunrise is a quiet affair.
The presidential debates are also a matter of establishing hierarchy. Mitt Romney, the front-runner out of Iowa, arrived in New Hampshire with the first crow of the new day. The other roosters are scrambling to out squawk him. If one of them gets more votes, he will be the first rooster of the South Carolina day. Eventually, like Franklin, one of those men will become the established top bird and primary season will get much quieter.
But, because they are people, not chickens, the claims in the crowing will not settle down. The First Rooster will say he can make jobs appear and the deficit go away. High on his tip toes, his neck extended, blind to everything but the sounds coming out of his throat, he’ll convince himself that his power alone, his righteousness, his moral conviction, will make the sun rise over America.
But because we are people, not chickens, we are less likely to obey. The human roosters may work themselves up with fantasies of power, but the flock is less willing to believe them. Fewer women in this country are undulating in front of the Great Protector; they’re more interested in finding meaningful employment. And young people can’t see much future if they don’t take risks in the forest. The roosters may keep crowing, but the flock has started to disperse.
Perhaps if these presidential roosters just did what they were supposed to do – run around and make sure the flock has food to eat and that they are kept out of harm’s way – we might stick around. As it is, they promise too much and deliver too little. Just the sort of mistake a human animal would make.
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