Shit-roller | Dung Beetle
V & I are in Texas at the moment. I’m sure it seems bizarre to leave Park City, a ski resort town, at the height of the winter season, but V broke his back in 2008 and hasn’t been much of a skier since; and having the chance to work SXSW was, for me, an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. Sooooo here we are, in the land where the stars at night are big and bright.
Each morning, we walk along the winding country lane that leads from our rental home in Hill Country to a main road. The other day, I saw a most curious thing. To me, anyway. A tiny ball (I thought, maybe a piece of a plant?) seemed to be slowing rolling down the road, somehow continuously propelling forward despite landing in a few cracks, somehow still maintaining a straight line despite crevices that should have veered it off course.
I was intrigued. Beyond intrigued.
“Look at this,” I said as I waved V over. “I can’t… wait — is that…? [pause] Is that a…?”
“Shit-roller.” As only V can say with his Russian accent.
“A sheet roller?” I thought I’d gone crazy at that point, as though I was missing a massive part of the picture. Sheet?
“SHIT. Shit shit shit. Poops. He’s rolling poops.”
What?! Who’s rolling what?! Totally.confused.
“C’mere and look, Carla.” V beckons me to get closer; and I see Sisyphus himself. A black beetle is at the helm of this ball, pushing it along, wheeling it along an invisible concrete channel toward a destination I could only imagine.
Once I see — digest — what he’s pointing at, V turns to continue on our walk. “Hold ON,” I insist as I continue staring. This is pure magic to me. “It’s a ball of… shit? No, no. Couldn’t be.” I just wasn’t following this.
“He collects poops into a ball and pushes it somewhere. Let’s go.”
“He collects SHIT?!? Into a ball?! And PUSHES it?! But WHY?!” I can’t get over this feat of nature. I suddenly want, no, NEED, to know everything about this situation.
And then, maybe a mile away, we hear the FedEx truck making its way towards us. “Oh no — Hun! He’s going to get smushed by the truck!” True, Mr. Beetle was in the middle of a single lane road, and the likelihood that he’ll get run over by the fat, wide tires seemed pretty high. Glancing around the road, I noticed flattened brown circles and crushed black beetle bodies strewn in both directions, and I realized for the 1millionth time that fate can be a cruel mistress.
“Ohhhhh jeeez — can’t we… well, can you move him? Off the road?” I plead with V to scoot him somewhere safe. It’s as though I’ve only just discovered this wonder of the universe and I’m going to lose it to parcel delivery.
“Fine.” And with that one word, he tries to gently kick the beetle and his dung into the grass alongside the road. As I yell, “Don’t KICK him!!!’ I watch V’s swift boot render the tiny shitball into pieces and the beetle into the air before landing on his back where, like an upside turtle, he becomes a melee of kicking legs. “GOD you’re worse than getting run over! Help him back up!”
V takes a hardened leaf — a remnant of fall — and flips the beetle over, but there’s no salvaging the poop. We stake our claim on the road over the poop and the beetle when FedEx rounds our corner, and as a result the truck has to swerve to avoid us. Sorry, Mr. Driver, but the end result is that our new friend is still alive, if not (anthropomorphically) quite horrified by state of his shit. He climbs over the pieces individually (in my mind, like a tornado survivor surveying the damage) and pauses.
“All his work, just gone. By a force he can’t comprehend. He was just rolling along, doing his best, smoothing the ball with every push as he went about his merry way; and SWOOOP his life’s work is in pieces and he’s wrongside up… and… and…” And I’m in tears. Literally.
V comes over and hugs me, cuz this beetle has become much more than a walking exoskeleton to me. He’s life personified. He’s the epitome of every bad day, bad week, bad year. And I’m not unfamiliar with bad luck or, for that matter, life’s destructive capacity.
As I look over V’s shoulder at my new metaphorical friend, I watch him wrangle the biggest remaining sliver of poop and hit the road. He just starts rolling again, heading in the same direction as before, equally as committed. It’s a smaller ball, but it’ll gain traction and, I’m assuming, more poop as he continues toward his destination.
Huh. “Look at that,” I gesture to V, wiping my eyes. “He’s off and running.” So, yeah. We all have our load of crap that we’re pushing around. And maybe it’s just crap, but it’s OUR crap, and we’re going to be tender and directorial as we navigate our own mysterious calamitous events. And when it falls to pieces? We’ll keep pushing forward. Cuz that’s how we roll.
V & I continued our morning walk, leaving the shit-roller to his business. About a quarter mile away, we heard the water delivery truck approaching, and V looked at me expectantly.
“Meh,” I shrugged. “He’s on his own.”
Photo was googled and borrowed from here.
