Spirit Bears and Canapes

OK, Dear Reader, if you don’t want to read about my pathetic 1^st World problems now is the time to abandon this blog.  Switch it off, return to the cat video you were watching; resume studying  the new coat of paint you’ve just daubed on your wall and don’t reopen this when it has dried. For the rest of you, here be my latest rant, diatribe, kick against societal norms.

I confess that I do not like finger food. Well, actually that is not entirely true, I am happy to eat it even though 90% of the time I have no idea of its content. I have devoured quaint wee wraps which I thought contained meat but instead possessed some form of vegetable. Nothing against vegetables, Dear Friends, but when one expects meat then one should have meat. But really I am wandering from the point. Firstly, I have to say that people are very kind and have invited Irene and me to many a pleasant gathering of lovely people. They have been perfect hosts and provided a cornucopia of food and drink so that the horn overfloweth. But, friends, it is not the only thing that spills over.

So here is the scene. Davidson lines up when the food is served. He has a paper plate, a paper napkin and an assortment of tooth picks (He has no idea why he has tooth picks but they were displayed and handy so he picks them up). He looks around the table with obvious relish. He does not know what it is on the little bit of bread with an orange substance on top but he notes that it is decorated with something green, therefore he knows it is healthy which is more than he can say about the orange gook. So he takes one. He then decides that it is only a mouthful therefore taking a second is fine. He searches again for something he recognises, he sees prawns. Aha! Load up with prawns and dip them in the orange coloured sauce at the side ( No hesimitation this time with the orange stuff, he is now resigned to eating unhealthily on this one evening). Hotplate full of meatballs, now he understands why the toothpicks. Grab half a dozen meatballs. Then something in a pastry. Seize some little pastry thingees with absolutely no chance of identifying what lies therein. But, what the hell, he is British, he went to a British boarding school, he ate truly awful food when he was a teenager. Nothing ventured. So now he has a very full plate which is starting to buckle dangerously. Then somebody offers him a glass of wine.

So now he finds himself in a group of some people he knows and some he doesn’t, a terra cognita and a terra incognita! He is resolved only to listen and not to talk until his plate is empty. Somehow he manages a prawn into his mouth adeptly with a controlled movement of his drinks hand. ( “I am an athlete, “ he silently preens his coordinated prowess.) But now his right hand is sticky and some of the orange coloured juice is dripping from the side of his mouth. Wiping it away with his paper napkin might mean spilling his drink in the process and he can’t risk that! Besides the nice lady opposite has just asked him a question.  So he answers and  feels the juice slide from his lower jaw onto the pristine white shirt which he was persuaded to wear. Without putting down his drink or his plate of goodies, there is no way for him to clean up the mess. There is no table handy. He is in the middle of a large room. A momentary rush of blood has him asking the nice lady if she would mind wiping his face and shirt but thankfully the Davidson filter steps in at the last minute. (“She is not my mother”, he mutters sotto voce). Now he cannot really manage the food and the drink so he downs the glass of wine, and finds a spot in a bed of roses for the glass. Now at least he can eat with impunity. But no, oh no, he can’t.

Now he takes a mouthful and is asked to respond to something so now he is swallowing a spinach roll and telling a complete stranger about his teaching career and feeling the need to ask about this interesting person’s life and gulping in air as he tries to talk and munch at the same time.

“So, tell me about your life,” Gulp of air, part of the tail of a prawn which he had failed to peel off finds its way down his throat. Great feelings of turmoil starting to grumble and groan within Davidson. Now is he not only a mess on the outside but the inside is beginning to rebel at the constant arrival of the unexpected.  And the evening carries on and Davidson continues to make polite chatter and fails to stop the assault on his stomach.

What has all of this got to do with the Spirit Bear, you may ask, Dear Reader? (Well actually you may not ask having given up on this sorry tale several paragraphs ago!).  Friend of mine has recently been to a retreat where all were asked about their Spirit Animals. I suppose that means what animal they would most like to be or, indeed, what animal they most resemble and admire. I understand why people would want to be an eagle. This magnificent bird is able to soar over stunning scenery and be master or mistress of all. The eagle seems to have property rights on the highest branch of the highest tree. Added to all of this the eagle has eyesight and good looks to die for. The grizzly bear stands in the river and scoops up fish and eats them and when he is fed up with that he goes and finds a berry bush. He is big and strong and feared and wildlife photographers love him. I understand why people might want the good looks and strength of the bear. So too the cheetah with the speed of Usain Bolt. Maybe even the swinging acrobatics of the monkey.  I can see why these could be Spirit Animals for so many people. My spirit animal is the dung beetle.

Yes, yes, I know the dung beetle does not have people reaching out to stroke it. There are no expressions of love as it looks across at you with its sad, droopy eyes. Nobody loves the dung beetle for its dashing good looks, its speed, its athleticism, its photogenic personality. No local resident says that he is just popping out to walk his pet beetle. They are not to be seen in the park retrieving balls or sticks. And yet, Dear Reader, the dung beetle contributes vastly to the well-being of our planet and here is how.

The Dung Beetle can bury 250 times its own body weight in one night.

Some dung beetles not only eat dung but also live in dung. Imagine living in an house you can eat.

The African dung beetle can navigate by the stars. Imagine being a man never having to ask anybody for directions ever again. ( Well, actually no male of our species has ever been known to ask for directions. No, sirree, we have our pride).

The dung beetle is estimated to save the American cattle industry 380 million dollars annually because it buries cattle feces. (Always willing to help our neighbours beneath us, they need us in their time of need.)

The dung beetle mitigates about 90% of Australian bush fires.

In Europe it is being used to reduce emissions of nitrous oxide and carbon dioxide. The dung beetle helps the environment.

The dung beetle or scarab appears as jewelry and other script in the tombs of Ancient Egypt as well as in the Aesop tale entitled, “The Eagle and the Beetle”. Ancient peoples knew about the dung beetle and honoured its worth. Now then, Dear Reader, I hear the cry, “What has this to do with Davidson at a cocktail party?” Well, I thought it would be somewhat obvious at this point. The dung beetle is very efficient at cleaning up messes and, indeed, living in messes. Gently and persistently it influences the environment in a good way. It is a force for good in the world. Of course, I have never sat down and interviewed a dung beetle so I do not know what its social skills are like except that it is likely a good listener.  So the dung beetle cannot talk the talk but it, most certainly, can walk the walk.  The dung beetle would leave no finger food behind, the mess on the white shirt would be cleaned up. It does not drink wine so it would not have the distraction of a wine glass. It is a saint and should be recognised as such. I will be having one in the top pocket of my ironed white shirt at my next cocktail party just in case of spillage and, well, maybe a good  talking point to break any awkward ice. The Dung Beetle is my Spirit Bear.  Be well, Dear Rea