The Myth of Wile E

All the Bears and Beetles of the World

On the way to the dump I paused to admire a brand new orange road sign. There it was, four-fifteenths of a haiku. Half statement, half plea.

END CONSTRUCTION, it said.

Now that was a lovely sentiment, one I could totally get behind. I wondered if it was Dougie's own work. See, Dougie is sometimes a poet, too; or I guess more accurately a scribe. His medium is license plates and road signs.

It must have been my lucky day, because scattered beneath the orange sign were dozens of empty bottles and cans. The cans were crumpled flat, like Wile E. Coyote after running into one of his phony train tunnels. As I gathered up the pile, someone drove by and threw an empty soda can at the sign, shouting, "Get a job!" They probably weren't talking to the sign.

For some reason it offends people to see someone wandering the streets, scavenging, instead of safely locked in a cubicle or chained to the shift clock. It's a violation of the human leash law.

I collected the can and raised a hand in thanks, for the driver's roundabout way of tossing me a nickel. The driver stuck his hand out his car window and returned the gesture, although using four fewer fingers.

Maybe it's this way for all of us scavengers—coyotes, poets, even lowly dung beetles. I wonder if sometimes a big forest bear gets to feeling put-upon, and erects a barricade around his droppings to prevent the dung beetle from getting any dung.

"What do YOU want?" the bear might growl, when a tumblebug comes scruffling along through the leaves.

"A smidgen of dung, if you don't mind, and then I'll be on my way." (For some reason I imagine the tumblebug sounding a lot like Droopy Dog.)

"Well, I do mind, as a matter of fact," the bear would huff. "I mind very much. You think you can just shuffle in and take this dung for nothing?"

"I don't know," says the dung beetle, his antennae twitching in confusion. "I didn't think you were using it."

"But that's not the point, is it? You think it was easy to make this dung? You think I could produce all this waste if I didn't go to the trouble of doing all that consuming? And then you think you can just amble about, living off what other folks 'do,' if you'll pardon the pun?"

"I see," says the tumblebug, not really seeing. (Tumblebugs are not exactly known for keen eyesight.) "So, you'll be keeping the dung, then . . . ?" His little antennae droop, weighed down by disappointment.

"Hell, no! But the point is, this dung is mine to do with as I please, whether I want it or not. And I most certainly do not!"

And so the baffled tumblebug wanders off in search of better scavenging prospects, and the indignant bear spends many a sleepless night pacing his barricade, guarding the waste he doesn't want—but more emphatically, doesn't want the dung beetle to have.

Soon the bear is exhausted, angry (I won't say "ticked off" because . . . well . . . ) and knee-deep in dung. But content in the knowledge that no one's getting something for nothing, dagnabbit.