For every human in the world
there are a million ants.
There are twice as many pigs
as people in Denmark. For each
person in New Zealand you’ll find
20 sheep, each of which grows 2
teeth a year until it has 8.
An African elephant has 4 teeth.
Cows have none at the top in front.
They have 4 stomach compartments.
Camels have 3 eyelids. Half
of a dolphin’s brain sleeps at one time.
The egg of an ostrich is larger
than its brain. Only dogs and humans
 have prostates.  Southern
right whales can use their fins
as sails. Snakes are deaf
to airborne sound. Cats sweat
from their paws and a group
is a glaring. Shrimp are all
born male. Pill bugs, being crustaceans, 
breathe through gills. Bats turn left 
when exiting a cave. Rat babies
are called pinkies. Ferret females
are called Jills. Butterflies taste
with their feet. House flies hum 
in the key of F and live 14 days,
while a flamingo can live to 80 years, 
an alligator to 100, and a goldfish to 70.
Skink lizards have green blood.  A climbing
perch can scale a tree.  And students
owning fish of any species score
highest on Math and Verbal SATs.
                        

He always arrives jolly, the owner of 
Royal Flush. Never a wrinkled nose
or a grimace. He and his assistant 
wrestle free the top of the septic tank and insert
the hose, start the pump. Every two years we call,
and although one summer he had a heck of a time 
prying that cavern open, his price is fixed and not 
too much. He returned once, lubricated the cover rim, 
but the next visit alerted us to rust, a tougher 
problem. My husband volunteered, since 
he has a grinder—which he applied to the edge to get 
down to the metal, then smeared on a coat of grease. 

He wrenched his back replacing the thick 
metal lid, so from now on we leave anything 
to do with that pit to specialists. What 
a constitution it must take to choose that 
sort of work. I picture the wife grumbling 
when her man comes home. Or did they build 
a separate room in which he throws his clothes 
into a washer, steps into a bathtub. And his kids, 
if he has any—what do they say when asked 
what their dad does for a living? Are they 
brash and crude, prepared with puns and slurs
to use before other kids can?  I’d like 
to think they do, and that they collect 
a band of tough friends who don’t take—
you know—from anyone.
                        

When he tries to give me his problem, 
I raise the flat of my hand. The problem hisses. 
And he almost drops it, winces, dejection in his face.
I sympathize, tell him to leave it with me. He 
lays it on my desk where it squints at me with 
one eye, the other closed, eyelid twitching as if 
it's trying to dream up a solution, which it can't
possibly be doing, since a problem's
not a problem to itself.

I run my hand over its back and the problem 
purrs, which tells me it likes attention. I lower
my arm to give it incentive. I don’t shake or scold, 
just coolly gaze beyond it, unresponsive when
it flicks its tail in my face, until, inhaling
dander, I sneeze. The problem’s obviously
pleased, so I tell it that this pitiful shedding 
will not be adequate. I fetch scissors, intending
to whittle the problem down. It shrinks

before I can begin, although most problems do not
grow smaller simply because you ignore them 
or threaten with cutting instruments. I
give it a gentle pat. It hasn't been all that difficult,
could have become his bobcat or lion. Instead, 
it has turned into my half-grown kitten, and who 
doesn’t enjoy playing with one of those, dragging 
a piece of string around, watching the thing chase 
the end of the larger problem it had been.