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Roger Rabbits with |
It was a dark, hot and steamy night in the garden. The air heavy with moisture, perfect for gastropods, perfect for snails, perfect for love,
And Ned, the old sleazeball, was out on the prowl. Again.
Looking for action. Again.
He had buffed up his crowning glory, his shell. And he was glistening with that gooey fragrance snails go for – called “Come and get me!”. Ned was a right spiffy snail tonight.
If he had a tail, it would have been up, because this one-in-40,000-snail fancied his chances. And those tentacles on his head, those long erect appendages Ned used to touch, smell, taste and sometimes see, were sensitive. Very sensitive. And they were probing.
A snail’s chemistry was right. And the night was right. And Ned was quietly and confidently humming to himself as he…well, slid along on his large muscular foot, just the one, that he used for locomotion.
“C’mon angel, my heart’s on fire, Don’t deny your man’s desire….”
A randy snail singing a womaniser’s song. Lovely!
“Kick off your shoes and sit right down, Loosen up that pretty French gown.”
Then, at snail’s pace, from the loose fountain of spinach leaves, Angel manifested – a vision of snail exquisiteness. And that’s when a mollusc’s heart almost exploded through its shell. And that’s when a bloke’s tentacles went beserk, waving deliriously, looking to touch, smell and taste. As what happens when a snail’s looking for love.
Wardrobe malfunction
Snail pace is 0.048km/hr actually – so snails don’t have time for wooing, sweet talk, flattery, or flowers. No, no! Through necessity, snail love is perfunctory, little feeling and even less effort. It’s about procreation, not a fun, lingering, casual release of emotions.
Then, when snail shells were colliding, clunking and crashing in the heat of the moment, when tentacles were tangled, when it looked like there would be an explosion of little garden pests under the silver beet, Angel decided something was wrong. Even with all the will in the world, this union wouldn’t, couldn’t, work.
“That’s the problem,” spotted Angel. “Your shell’s on back to front.”
She was right. The spiral design, or coil, on Ned’s shell was on the lefthand side. Hers the right. Right is deadest common. Left is not. Which meant there could be no hanky panky tonight. Ned needed another lefty if he wanted love. And Angel, for her part, needed a righty.
Life of chastity
A righty shows its coil when the snail moves left to right. The lefty shows its coil when the snail moves right to left. Snail lefties and righties – never the twain shall meet.
And it meant the very thing that made Ned special, a one-in-40,000-snail, was also his undoing. His would be a chaste life unless he hooked up with another lefty.
It’s to do with the configuration of their bits and pieces – anatomical talk of course. The positioning of their reproductive organs. Perhaps that’s the very reason slugs got rid of their shells? They were an impediment to a voracious sexual appetite. Slugs are smarter than snails.
“So what?” I hear you say. But I bet you’ll be doing a righty/lefty check on every snail that storms your garden hereon in.
Those people do exist. Ned was spotted by a zoophilist, a creature lover, while in the garden weeding. The kindest thing I would have done is heaved Ned over the fence into the neighbour’s vege patch, knowing it would take him six months to make his way back. But a zoophilist, lover of all things great and small, was moving him to a safe part of the garden when she noticed his lefty coil. How did she know what to look for? It’s extraordinary the stuff people store away in their knowledge bank.
Anyhow there was high excitement and expectation. Because now Ned’s holed up in a fish bowl while his minder waits for another lefty to be found. A nationwide mission to salvage a snail’s love life? What?
Slimy philanderer
Surely, as a hermaphrodite, Ned can tend his own life needs? Snails have male and female bits and pieces that enable them to be both guy and gal during mating. And in some cases snails can self-fertilise – but I suspect sustaining the species wasn’t a priority for Ned. He wanted fun without responsibility, full-blown lust and love, then walk, or slide, away.
I never had any affinity for snails. I dissected one in a biology class but the teacher said it looked like it had been dropped from a great height, or involved in a 150km/h head-on smash. Snail pâté. I abandoned any plans to do autopsies.
But why are we getting all sentimental about a snail? Ned’s a pest, he does serious damage, and he’s a slimy philanderer.
Eat or fling!
Sports teams which adopt animals to promote strength, speed and aggression for their brand, a psychological tool, never choose snails. The Greerton Gastropods, or the Pyes Pa Snails, wouldn’t work.
If Ned doesn’t find a friend, I suggest the zoophilist boils him, douses him with garlic, parsley butter and bakes him until he sizzles. A wonderful squid-like, chewy texture, is the snail.
Or throw him over the fence!
* Ned and his dilemma was brought to light recently by the ‘New Zealand Geographic’ publication. Find out more here: www.nzgeo.com/stories/lets-find-a-mate-for-ned/