Curiosity 75: Dung beetles

With a title like that, you might think I'm veering away from poetry. Well, not exactly. But first, a few facts about dung beetles—which number in the thousands of species: up to 8,000-plus, depending on your source. Verily!

Dung beetles, like so many other successful species, are found on all the continents except Antarctica. They are the strongest insect in the world, some species rolling up to 50 times their weight in dung. This activity is ecologically important, removing parasites and waste from the surface and returning nutrients to the soil.

Why do they roll dung? It may serve as food, or as a place to lay eggs (a "brood ball"). Or, a male might present a ball of dung to a prospective mate. (The males do all the rolling; females may hitch a ride.)

When they have collected their pile of dung, they always roll it in a straight line, obstacles notwithstanding. The ancient Egyptians, seeing this, surmised that dung beetles drove the motion of the sun, which explains the religious importance of scarab beetles (Scarabaeus sacer), personified in the god Khepri. Though in fact, it's the sun that determines the beetle's path of travel (or, at night, the moon or even the Milky Way). 

There are three different kinds of dung beetle: the "tunnelers," which bury the dung right where it sits; the "dwellers," which simply move into the pile of dung; and the "rollers"—and you know what they do.

One subfamily of beetles, the Scarabaeinae, feeds exclusively on dung, but it is not an uncommon behavior in other groups.  They prefer the poop of omnivores, but will also feed on that of herbivores, as well as on mushrooms and decaying leaves and fruits. Dung is found via a keen sense of smell.

In case you were wondering, yes, there is an article, by the wonderful science writer Ed Yong, titled, "What a [Dung] Beetle's Genital Worms Reveal about the Concept of Individuality." I say again, verily! 

And because there's nothing like visuals:

Finally, yes, I did promise you a poem (didn't I?). It's one I heard the other day on Pádraig Ó Tuama's Poetry Unbound podcast, and it's what got me to wondering about dung beetles. Everything is connected to poetry in the end, isn't it? 

How the Dung Beetle Finds Its Way Home

The Milky Way’s glinting ribbon helps the dung beetle
roll his good ball of shit back to the ones he loves.
But blind him to the sky with as little as a hat,
and he will swerve like a drunk who, if he makes it home alive,

might find the family, soured with waiting,
gone. Drawers cleared, beds cold, even the watercolor ark
of giraffes and raptors pulled from the face of the fridge.
See? I want to tell my missing father, it’s a metaphor so simple

it’s almost not worth writing down: even beetles need the stars
to nudge them back to where they need to be
when they need to be there—toward their little ones’
gummy grins ever pardoning the grisliest parent.

I am thirty-four with a son the day my mother tells me
she enrolled in a four-day seminar about how to be a good mom.
A little late, I know.
Once, in a rage, I left my husband and our sleeping child.

Where did you go, friends ask when I tell the story.
I wish I’d had a grander plan. I wish I’d stood on the roof
of our building and, empowered by that single Brooklyn star,
I’d ripped up the book of my parents’ sins.

Or I wish I could tell someone the truth: that I fear
I am the kind of woman who could leave the one good family
God had the gall to give her. Really,
I sat on the stairwell leading up to the roof and wept

until a large bug threatened my life, at which point I recalled
the dung beetles, stopped blaming my parents, and—
thanking the metaphorical stars—I rolled up my pile of shit
and trudged back home.  

                                                                —Eugenia Leigh