The Mouths of Babes
BY Heather Hogan
Illustration by Kristi-Ly Green
In the summer between first and second grade, I dared Becky Morton to eat the dog turd we’d found on the Griffins’ front lawn.
It was late afternoon. The sun shone warm and sleepy on the nutty sausage at our feet. I sat down opposite Becky. My little brother and another kid from up the street flanked us. We stared with quiet intensity at the textured coil between us, as though waiting for it to speak up on Becky’s behalf and object to my reckless dare.
I had lodged the dare in the spirit of carefree abandon, but it hung heavy in the air above us, loaded with the weight of its implications. My voice seemed suspended just beyond my lips. Its lingering evoked in Becky the kind of resignation she needed to pull off this stunt like the seasoned meeter-of-dares she claimed to be. Sadly, that was the only card Becky had to play in the complex social labyrinth of our youth. Self-destruction. Her Kool-Aid-ringed mouth, stringy hair, and the sour milk smell that clung to her clothes rendered her otherwise unlikeable. But she was brave, and had an unpredictable sense of daring that endeared her to us. Becky also did what we told her to do. We liked that.
Becky bought herself some time by pointing out the logistical flaws of my dare. In my excitement I had not included any clauses that required Becky to actually touch the turd, which she was loath to do, as its surface looked “icky.” I, feeling defensive of my oversight and not wanting my dare to lose momentum, quickly handed Becky a serving twig and went back to holding my breath.
Becky then pointed out that the stick had been on the ground and was subsequently not hygienic enough to employ as an eating utensil.
My brother and I took the twig from her grimy hand and carefully peeled back the bark. We explained as we did so that the tender green surface beneath the bark had long been known to bushmen and schoolchildren alike as a perfectly hygienic utensil, primarily used for roasting marshmallows, but easily adapted for other cuisines. I handed the peeled switch back to Becky. Her silence indicated she’d reached the end of her stalling. We leaned forward, four sunburnt heads nearly touching, as the cicadas filled the air with shrill notes of caution.
Becky licked her lips and gave the turd an exploratory pat with the end of her switch. It cut the turd easily in two, rounding the cut edges like a butter knife would cleave a bran muffin. “You’re lucky, Becky,” I whispered. “Looks like you won’t have to chew.”
Becky drew the twig towards her and peered suspiciously at the matter clinging to its tip. It was now or never. She held the stick so close that I feared her next breath would draw her attention to the stink, breaking the tenuous spell of my influence.
“You said you’d do it, Becky. We’re all waiting.”
She moved like lightning. In less than a second, Becky had stuck out her tongue and run it up the business end of her stick, and we had all begun to scream in revulsion and disbelief.
She was stuck like that—with her tongue hanging out, dog shit sliding down its moist, pebbled surface to pool at its tip. She threw down her twig, dropped her jaw and began to scream with the rest of us, no doubt just as horrified by her actions as we were. But with her tongue out of her mouth, screaming proved to be difficult and at best she could only manage a nasal “euu…” sound, which did nothing to assuage her mortification. Thwarted, Becky bolted to her feet and fled across the sun-dappled lawn into the quiet sanctity of her home, where she was safe from the frenzied shrieks of her former friends.
One has to wonder about the sequence of events that unravelled once she’d entered the house. Was her mother there? Did her mother see what had happened? Or did Becky simply grab the first thing she saw—a coat sleeve, or a dishtowel—and rub her tongue raw with it?
What transpired later that evening as her mother, preparing dinner, discovered the offending dishtowel folded neat as a pin over the handle of the oven, inexplicably smeared with feces? Would she have demanded an explanation?
Perhaps Becky’s mother, in her wisdom, would have known that living in dignity requires a bit of mystery and that feces on a neatly folded dishtowel can only mean a fall from grace. Maybe Becky’s mother, without saying a word to anyone, hid the dishtowel under the potato peels in the dustbin and went back to idly stirring yet another pitcher of lurid, cherry-red Kool-Aid.
