Socrates' Rooster (by Leopoldo Alas Clarín) part II

Crito anticipated the bird’s plans to hop down into the little square so he could pursue and grab him. It had gotten into his head (for when men begin to get stuck in religious ideas and feeling which are found to be irrational he doesn’t stop until embracing the most puerile of superstitions) that that rooster and no other was what Esculapius, I mean Asclepius, wished to be sacrificed for him. Crito chocked up the coincidence of the encounter to the will of the gods.

It appeared that the rooster was not of the same mind, for as soon as he noticed that a man was chasing him, he began to run, flapping his wings and clucking which was very uncomfortable, to be sure. The biped knew perfectly well who was chasing him form having seen him not a few times in his master’s garden endlessly discussing love, eloquence, beauty etc. while the rooster himself seduced a hundred hens in five minutes without so much philosophy.

“But it’s a good thing,” the rooster was thinking as he ran and got to ready to fly as much as he were able in case the danger got worse, “it’s a good thing that those wise men I abhor should try to have me for their own against all naturals laws known to them. It would be great if after freeing myself from the unbearable slavery Gorgias kept me in I were to fall to the hand of this poor devil and second hand thinker, who is a lot less entertaining than his chatter-box of a master.”

The rooster ran and the philosopher followed within reach. When he was about to grab with his hand the rooster flapped his wings and by way of a flight (or hop) and extreme exertion , brought on by panic, he managed to get on top of the head of a statue representing none other than the goddess Athena.

“Oh irreverent rooster,” the philosopher yelled, making himself a fanatical inquisitor, pardon the anachronism. He quieted down the shouting of his honest conscience, which said: Don’t steal that rooster, with a pseudo-pious sophism and thought: Now you surely deserve death on account of your sacrilege. You’ll be mine. You’ll be sacrificed.

The philosopher got on his tip toes, stretching himself as much as possible, and made short pathetic hops. But to no avail.

To be continued in part III . . . .