Beasts of no party: the curious history of America’s animal mayors

It was a fiercely contested election.

Seven candidates, each bringing a unique set of skills and perspectives, battled to be the next mayor. Locals followed every twist and turn, in a race that lasted weeks. The political hopefuls made repeated, frequently loud, appearances on TV news, and posed for photos on social media. By the end of the election onlookers agreed that any of the candidates would make a very good mayor.

Ultimately, there could only be one winner.

That winner was Ringo, who is a dog, because this is Divide, Colorado, a tiny town which has been governed by a series of animal mayors, including a three-legged dog, a three-legged cat and a four-legged donkey, since 2010.

Ringo’s victory, announced last week, left his competitors heartbroken. Voters rejected a cat called Mango and a sugar glider called Dale. Napoleon, a donkey, was elected vice-mayor; Flan, who is a cow, was left empty-hooved, despite election-watchers having high hopes for her candidacy.

“We’re a rural area, and I’m kind of surprised that the cow did not ever pull ahead,” said Kathleen Ruyak, who administered the election in Divide. “She has a lot to say. She’s a very talkative cow. She just moos. She just keeps mooing for treats and cookies.”

It may seem odd that people would be weighing whether to elect a cow or a donkey to be their mayor. But the truth is that some US communities have been peacefully ruled by democratically elected animals for decades. (There are exceptions: Clay Henry Jr, a goat and the former mayor of Lajitas, Texas, assumed office by killing his father, who was also a goat, in the 1990s.)

The mayoral positions rarely carry much executive power, but continue to exist as a quirk of American culture, the elections held in an effort to attract tourists to dusty rural towns and to raise money for local causes.

The Divide election, for example, raised $20,000 for the Teller County Regional Animal Shelter, where Ruyak works as the communications and administrative director. Ringo the dog will be sworn in as mayor on 8 May, Ruyak said, in a ceremony where he will receive a medal. He will serve in the role for two years.

As he prepares to enter politics, Ringo could do worse than seek the advice of Lucky Dinero, who has been mayor of Omena, Michigan, since 2024.

Lucky, a horse, faced a tough race that year: he had to overcome 12 dogs, five cats and a goat called Sandra to win the election. The 18-year-old didn’t run on a specific set of campaign promises, but he has proved to be a popular leader.

“He has great social skills and he’s friendly,” said Kathryn Bosco, Lucky’s owner and campaign manager. “He loves everybody.”

Lucky, who is a black and white horse, is no pushover, however.

“He’s also got a bit of an attitude. He’s all boy, all fun and games,” Bosco said. She added: “He likes to jump over fences. He also likes girl horses and carrots.”

Lucky was the first horse to be elected mayor of Omena, in Leelanau county, shattering the glass ceiling to win a position which had been dominated by cats and dogs. Perhaps it was fate: Lucky has, according to Bosco, an “exact replica” of Leelanau county on his left hip.

Omena, which has a population of about 300 people, is a pretty sleepy place, with local attractions including a winery and an art gallery. Despite Lucky’s apparent enthusiasm for the role, he is unlikely to be called upon for urgent governance: particularly given he, unfortunately, doesn’t have any real power.

Like Divide, Omena is an “unincorporated” community, which essentially means it doesn’t really have local politicians, but is instead governed by the broader county. That opens the door for locals to hold these novelty elections, but also means Lucky, and Ringo the dog, will be unable – unless they prove to be particularly wily and capable politicians – to enact real change. The Omena election did serve a purpose, however: people paid a dollar to vote in the race, and it raised $15,000 for the Omena Historical Society.

Fair Haven, in Vermont, has similarly benefited. Elections there raise money for playground equipment, and are used to educate children on the democratic process. Candidates, or their owners, pay a $5 fee to submit their pet, and local kids vote for the winner.

Duncan, a dog, won election last year after campaigning on a slogan of “Fetch the Future”. It was a close-run thing. “He only won by one vote,” said Miranda Cox, Duncan’s owner. Cox made a series of campaign posters for Duncan, including one with the rather austere message: “Heart of gold, paw of iron”, but she said her dog had been frustrated that he hadn’t been able to wield true power.

“He doesn’t really have many responsibilities, just attending town events. And he went to the Memorial Day town event that we have, and they have a parade every year, and he was in that,” Cox said.

“But that’s pretty much it. He doesn’t have much sway over the goings on uptown.”

Some towns appear to have ended up with animal leaders almost by accident. Lajitas, near Big Bend national park on the US-Mexico border, originally had a human mayor, but he was usurped by Clay Henry, a goat, in 1986. Henry was housed in a cage next to the local bar, and during his time in office he developed a reputation as a heavy drinker: reportedly consuming 35-40 bottles of beer a day.

Henry unfortunately left office in 1992 when he was killed by his son, Clay Henry Jr, allegedly in a drunken fight over a female goat. Henry Jr ascended to the position, before his son, Clay Henry III – the locals clearly don’t mind nepotism – took over in 2000. As of 2024, Clay Henry IV is reportedly mayor of Lajitas, but the goat could not be reached for comment.

The scholarship around animal mayors remains a limited field. With few definitive texts available, academics are reduced to poring through newspaper articles or clips on YouTube for information. One town that continually emerges as having a rich history is Rabbit Hash, in Boone county, Kentucky, a town that basically exists as a cluster of houses around an old general store.

Rabbit Hash, which is led by Mayor Boone, a dog, is an interesting case. The town, founded in the early 1800s, had never had a mayor until 1998, when it announced a sort of novelty election as part of the bicentennial celebrations for Boone county. Initially all the candidates for mayor were actual human beings, until the owners of a dog called Goofy entered him into the race. In what surely was something of an indictment of the men and women Goofy ran against, the dog won, and Rabbit Hash has had nothing but dog mayors ever since.

Mayor Boone, unlike Ringo and Lucky, and certainly unlike the drunk goat in Texas, actually came in with a signature campaign issue: Boone was determined, according to his owner, to encourage water safety on the Ohio River.

“The town had a large erosion issue on the bank – some trees were about ready to fall over, and they had lost a lot of the river bank,” said Dave Landwehr, Boone’s owner. It proved an appealing topic: Boone enjoyed a huge victory. He delivered on his promise, too: “Boone went out and got sponsors, and we came in and did erosion bank stabilization,” Landwehr said.

Boone was elected mayor on the same day Donald Trump was elected president for the second time, but has proved to be a less divisive leader. He has focused on the community, appearing in Rabbit Hash’s Christmas parade, “chairing” – Landwehr’s term – a music festival last August, and meeting with charity groups and other organizations.

It’s a busy schedule, but Boone still finds time to relax, by barking at rabbits and visiting a coon hound called Darby who, Landwehr said, is “kind of his girlfriend”.

Boone has retained his good nature, Landwehr said. He is unchanged by his time in office: something that can’t be said for many human politicians. Politics is a world where power can corrupt, but these animals seem impervious to that. The dogs, horses and cats that rule America’s towns are good-natured – except for Clay Henry Jr – and, in at least one case, they have made a difference to their communities.

At a time when politics is a murkier, more self-interested, more cut-throat business than ever before, perhaps having an animal leader could catch on.

The Guardian wp:paragraph