Twelve years to a round, twelve animals to a circle — the Chinese handed time itself to twelve animals, along with character, blessing and the measure of living.
The zodiac is the calling card the Chinese give to the years: the year you were born is spoken for by an animal, twelve years to a round, cycling without end. It answers, in the plainest way, a deep question — what is time? Time is the rat of the Zi hour and the horse of the Wu hour, the ox of the Beginning of Spring and the dragon of the Waking of Insects.
Twelve animals, twelve characters, twelve blessings. They are more than a calendar: they are a folk course in living — the rat's quick wit, the ox's steadiness, the horse's drive, the dog's loyalty. The Chinese folded their hopes for children, their reading of friends, and their reminders to themselves into these twelve signs.
Why does the Rat rank first of the twelve? The best-loved explanation is "the rat bit open Heaven": in the beginning all was chaos like an egg, and it was a rat that gnawed the chaos apart in the deep of night, releasing the air so heaven and earth could part — the merit of opening the world belongs to the rat. Another account orders the animals by their toes: the rat has four in front and five behind, odd and even in one body, and so slips into the first hour where yin and yáng exchange.
Folk feelings toward the rat are mixed: it steals grain, yet is also called the "god of the granary" — only a house with surplus can afford a rat. In New Year prints the mice blow horns and carry a bridal sedan ("the rat marries off its daughter"), a farmer's daydream of children and harvest. That a small and lowly animal heads the zodiac is folk wisdom in character itself: never mind the birth, mind the ability.
The ox is the first hero of farming civilization. Since iron ploughs and ox-drawn tillage spread in the Spring and Autumn period, an ox was half a farm family's estate, and dynasty after dynasty forbade the private slaughter of plough oxen. The Chou hour is the ox's chewing time — deep in the night it still slowly ruminates the day's grass, the very picture of what the Chinese mean by "steady".
The "whipping the spring ox" rite has lasted a thousand years: officials strike an earthen or paper ox with colored staffs to open the farming year, and grain spills from the broken body as an omen of plenty. The ox is neither the showiest nor the most brilliant of the twelve, but the weightiest — the Chinese laid the words "great virtue carries the world" upon its back.
The tiger is the beast the Chinese revere and befriend most, honored as "Lord of the Mountains." In the Yin hour, before dawn breaks, the tiger roars through the valleys at the very exchange of night and day — to give the tiger the Yin hour is to give it the power of beginnings.
In folk life the tiger is a guardian: tiger-head shoes and tiger-head caps at Duanwu, the house-protecting tiger of New Year prints, mugwort tigers driving off the five poisons. For a child, the tiger is a blessing sewn by grandparent hands into cap and shoe — may he be strong and fearless as a tiger. In the zodiac, the tiger is majesty, and more: protection.
In the Mao hour the sun rises as the moon sets in the west — the moon's envoy, the Jade Rabbit, goes off duty as day comes, so the rabbit takes the Mao hour. In the Moon Palace the Jade Rabbit pounds the elixir of immortality, the only companion of Chang'e: the Chinese entrusted their longing for long life to a quiet white hare.
The rabbit's worldly image is just as endearing: the cunning hare with three burrows is strategy; swift as a startled hare is agility; waiting by the stump for a rabbit warns against luck-hunting. One zodiac animal, two lessons — be alert, and be honest.
The dragon is the only invented animal among the twelve — antlers of a deer, head of a camel, eyes of a rabbit, neck of a snake, belly of a clam, scales of a fish, claws of an eagle, palms of a tiger, ears of an ox. The Song scholar Luo Yuan's "nine likenesses" record the forging of countless tribal totems into one body: the dragon is a living fossil of "unity in diversity."
The dragon governs rain, the very lifeline of a farming people; emperors styled themselves true dragons, and the "dragon raises its head" on the second day of the second month still tells the fields it is time to plough. An animal that never existed became the birth sign of 1.4 billion people — imagination's most successful colonization of reality.
The snake is politely called the "little dragon" — it shares the dragon's winding form without its parade of clouds and rain. In the Si hour the morning sun is just right and the snake comes out to bask: a cold-blooded creature feeding on sunlight, it has made "seek advantage, avoid harm" into instinct.
Chinese feeling toward the snake runs to both poles: the devoted Lady White of the Legend of the White Snake, a thousand years of cultivation spent on one mortal love, versus the cautionary "a snake too greedy swallows an elephant." Its molting makes it an emblem of renewal — the serpent wound about the healer's staff, East and West, arrived at the same symbol by different roads.
The Wu hour is the fiercest of the sun, yang at its very peak — the most yang of animals takes high noon. The horse was ancient China's yardstick of speed and state power: Emperor Wu of Han twice sent armies for the heavenly horses of Ferghana, and Tang Taizong carved stone reliefs of the six warhorses that won his empire (the Zhaoling Six Steeds). A good horse was worth a nation's strength.
The density of horse-blessings in Chinese is extraordinary: success on horseback, first horse out of the gate, whip the horse onward, the old horse knows the way — and inside the "thousand-li horse" stories hides a human truth: "only when there is Bo Le can there be thousand-li horses." The zodiac horse is the footnote for all who run.
The ancient graph for xiang ("auspicious") in "auspicious blessing" is none other than "goat" — in bronze inscriptions "auspicious" is often written plainly as "lucky goat." In the Wei hour the sun slants west and the goat grazes contentedly; ease before and settledness after are both written in its unhurried chewing.
The goat is Chinese virtue's teaching aid: the lamb kneels to suckle — filial piety; the goat carries horns yet does not fight — propriety. "Three goats usher in peace" is really the Yijing hexagram Tai, "three yangs bring spring," borrowing the goat's homophone — so grand a blessing as winter's end and all things renewed, given to the gentlest of animals.
In the Shen hour dusk gathers and gibbons call through the hills, so the monkey takes the Shen hour. The ancients noted the monkey's likeness to humans: hou ("monkey") puns on "await" — watching the hunter's snare, it waits — patience raised to a survival art.
One stone monkey carried this sign to its summit: Sun Wukong wrecked the heavenly palace and escorted the pilgrimage west, giving "monkey" a lasting personality — unruly, yet reaching the true fruit in the end. Folk painters add a bonus: a monkey mounted on a horse reads "marquis at once" — prayers for rank and honor, entrusted to a primate.
In the You hour the sun sets and the fowl return to roost — the day's close is handed to the timekeeper, letting punctuality literally take the last watch. The ancients gave the rooster five virtues: the crest on its head is culture; the spurs on its legs are valor; calling its mates to food is benevolence; never missing a morning is faith; daring the enemy is courage.
Zu Ti, "rising at the cock's crow to practice the sword," is the most famous Chinese ever woken by a rooster: where others heard disturbance, he heard the call to arms. A farm bird entered the zodiac not for being lovable, but for that crow, day after day, never late.
In the Xu hour night closes in; humans sleep and dogs wake — the watch on the household begins. The dog was among the first animals humans ever domesticated and has kept company with the Chinese for ten thousand years: pottery dogs buried in tombs, yellow dogs in the fields, the wagging tail by the wicker gate — all footnotes to that companionship.
Official history keeps a place for dogs: the Book of Jin records the faithful dog that saved its master, and tales of loyal dogs dying for their households fill the notebooks of every age. "A child never minds an ugly mother; a dog never minds a poor home" — the Chinese handed the worldly definition of the word "loyalty" to the dog.
The Hai hour is the day's end, the darkest and stillest — to give "the end" to the pig hides an agrarian society's plain wish: granaries full, six livestock thriving, the whole household sleeping sound. The written evidence is the most direct: the character jia ("home") is a roof over a shi ("pig") — no pig, no home.
The pig is the zodiac's "general of fortune": a plump body is blessedness, a mild temper is generosity, and a hearty appetite, in years of famine, was the greatest luck of all. The twelve begin with the rat and end with the pig — head and tail alike, the hearth-smoke of ordinary families.