My friend Breanna is a model organic citizen. She deserves some kind of award for her vast achievements in organic living. For example, in addition to all her average daily triumphs such as starting her own organic food co-op, grinding her own wheat to make bread, growing an awesome organic garden, making all her own baby food, giving birth naturally, and thoughtfully reusing and recycling tons of household items—she recently agreed to babysit a bucket of compost worms for a relative stranger.

You see, a woman in Breanna's organic food co-op was moving to an apartment. Over the years she had accumulated a large number of red wriggler worms thanks to her own organic tendencies and love for composting.

The apartment complex did not allow pets and worms were particularly unwelcome. This is how her large throng of red wriggler worms became essentially homeless. Breanna generously took pity on them and offered to take them in until their owner could move into a house again.

Although she had kindly agreed to babysit the worms, Breanna was a little nervous. Babysitting the worms was no small task. And this woman loved her worms. Breanna did not want to accidentally kill them.

The worms came with a five-gallon plastic bucket filled with brown sludge. This was their home. The bucket had holes at the bottom to keep the sludge from getting extra-sludgey. From the holes seeped a black slime that was particularly foul and fragrant. And by fragrant I mean offensive and nauseating—if that seemed open for interpretation.

The worms also came with a multi-page instructional booklet that detailed the many rules for caring for them. They required raking, feeding, stirring, scraping, and de-sludgifying among other duties.

Breanna worked diligently and took excellent care of her small wards. She gave them a nice home in her garage, where she and her young children visited them often, talked to them, sang to them, fed them, and occasionally attempted to snack on them (the children, that is.)

The children adored the worms. They were fascinated by their putrid surroundings and enjoyed finger painting with the viscous slime. Why is it that young children are always drawn to the most repugnant, fetid, unsavory, and detestable of all things? My children are absolutely the same. Give them the choice between playing with a brand new, hygienically-approved, germ-free bouncy ball and a globe of matted fur from beneath the fridge—they will always choose the latter.

Thankfully, the worms seemed delighted with their new home, as they multiplied quite successfully and oozed vast amounts of decaying slime out the bottom of their container. One morning, just after Breanna had finished her worm duties, the telephone rang.

It was the worm's mother. She had moved to a new, worm-friendly location and was ready to get her babies back. “Can I come and get them immediately?” she asked. “I miss them so much!”

“Of course,” Breanna said, as she breathed a small sigh of relief. She has not disliked the worms, but she had not grown quite as attached to them as her children had.