This happens to me all the time, it seems. Though usually it’s not something beautiful doing the crapping — usually it’s something dirty and mean like a dive-bombing pigeon. Among my friends I’m afraid I’m known for “getting crapped on” with some regularly. At the very least, if anyone’s going to be on the receiving end of a special delivery, as likely as not it’ll be me. A few weeks ago I returned from a long walk-cum-writing expedition to discover I had a large white lime streak on the shoulder of my black jacket, drizzling down my backpack strap. It must have been that — and not my rugged good looks — that caught the attention of all those beautiful women in the streets. Sigh.
On Tuesday this week, an excursion was made to the Jardin Botanique de Montréal, where every spring they have a fantastic exhibition called Papillons en liberté (Butterflies Go Free!). Inside one of the tropical greenhouses of the botanical garden (a treat to experience in itself, after winter!), hundreds of exotic butterflies and giant hairy moths dip and dive freely amongst the pungent flowers (and people).
Of course, you’re not allowed to touch the butterflies because it damages their delicate wings. But, delicate or not, they are allowed to touch you. In my case, a giant butterfly took a liking to my Peruvian wool sweater (which perhaps reminded him of home or — more likely — he liked its camouflaging qualities?). He latched onto the front and stayed there for the entire time I toured the exhibit. Needless to say, many pictures were taken by laughing and pointing people (naturally I’m accustomed to this).
After fifteen or twenty minutes of freeloading, it was time for my visitor to put on a show. A man with a monstrous camera came up and looked closely at my chest…well, at the butterfly. He said: “Too bad it won’t open its wings.” It had opened its wings on several occasions, and I mentioned this. He began to walk away sans photo when the butterfly, endeavouring to prove me right, parted its wings. I called the man back: “See?” As he approached with his giant lens, we discovered the reason my little friend opened his wings…he proceeded to unload a remarkable quantity of liquid from his abdomen onto my sweater and shoes. An attendant rushed over and took the little pisser in her fingers and pulled him free. I was offered towels and a special cleaning spray: “It can be quite smelly,” I was told, as though this were a regular occurrence. I wiped at the droplets with a Kleenex and gave a tentative sniff — seemed okay to me so I declined the butterfly-shit cleanser.
And, though I felt…er, uniquely chosen (if not lucky or blessed), I still went home and delicately washed my wool sweater. After all, what if “he” laid eggs during his sojourn? Beauty is one thing, but there’s also a reason mothballs exist.