Cecil the Nervous Penguin

“Penguin poop is toxic and really, really sticky, so we can’t just have him strolling around the library,” my boss tells me.

“You know, you can buy chicken diapers. Maybe there’s something like that for penguins,” I suggest.

“They’re probably not going to let us put a diaper on a penguin,” she says.

“So, what are we going to do with him?”

“We’re going to sequester him in a room with some plastic tarps. But only about 30 people will be allowed to attend—that way he won’t get nervous.”

“Penguins get nervous?”

“I guess so.”

“Wild.” 

That afternoon, it’s my turn to lead story time. I end up with an audience of about ten, five of whom are little girls that are really into it. They lay across from me on their bellies, with their faces cupped in their hands.

Normally, I’d have one or two of them crawling on me, but I’ve chosen the tiniest chair today. It’s not that I mind them close to me, but children are sharp sometimes, and lately, I’ve been getting clawed to ribbons by their little nails.

Between books and whenever it strikes them really, the five girls tell me about their lives (if you don’t want to know too much about the pets of children you don’t know and their friends, don’t get a job at the library). I hear about who has seen a unicorn and what noise they make (“neigh” the girl tells me while rolling her eyes, as if I’m dumb for even asking).

I read a book about a violin-playing ghost, and one of them tells me about the zombie tv show that her parents allow her to watch. Another tells me she doesn’t talk to monsters—and I assure her that this is probably wise.

But after a while I can see that I’m losing them, so I open a book on the target-pooping practices of birds, one of whom is a penguin. Soon, the little girls are squalling “poop!” at the tops of their voices, and because I started this, I don’t feel like I should be the one to shush them. Though the people studying nearby are giving me looks that would suggest otherwise.

“We’re having a penguin visit the library soon,” I tell the girls when the book is finished, “though from the precautions we’re taking, it doesn’t sound like he’s a good target-pooper.”

“I’ll bet it’s just a penguin puppet,” one of the girls says. “You can’t fool us.”

The others around her nod sagely.

I understand that the ferret puppet in my lap erodes my credibility as I assure them, “No, it’s going to be a real penguin.”

“Pfft,” another one of them snorts, “it’ll just be one of the librarians dressed up in a penguin costume.”

Was I this dubious at five? Again, I promise that it’s a real penguin, but I can tell that they’re still not convinced. As story time comes to a close, I find myself wondering if all the other kids won’t believe me either.

If, in a couple of weeks time, it’ll just be me and a penguin in a room full of plastic sheeting, as I dance around, trying not to get shit on my shoes.