Diogenes was definitely one of the weirdest of the Greek philosophers. Living up to his nickname, “The Cynic,” he was known for wandering the streets during the day with a illuminated lantern searching in vain for “an honest man.” When Alexander the Great stood by his side and questioned him, all Diogenes said in return was “get out of my sun”. He modeled much of his life on that of a dog and therefore owned nothing, begged for food, and used the streets as his toilet. Even his chosen home was a huge clay pot or tub.

Look up Diogenes on the internet and you’ll hit on the site of the Diogenes Naturist Sun Club – a group of nudists living outside London, England who claim a membership of all ages from “nappies to nineties.” Their philosophy is to “take off your clothes and live in harmony with the natural environment.”
 

Now that I am responsible for your present mental picture of a naked septuagenarian playing vollyball and a crazy Greek guy lifting his leg next to an ancient fire hydrant, I must explain myself. You see, I was doing some research on crayfish. Crayfish do not wear clothes and they do live in harmony with the natural environment, but the particular one that led me down this naked path was the Chimney Crayfish. The scientific name of this species is Cambarus diogenes – he is named after Diogenes. I was only trying to follow a scholarly lead.
Chimney Crayfish earn their common name because they excavate tunnels and pile up chimney-like towers of mud around the burrow entrance. Like the rest of the crayfish clan, they are gill breathers that need to be in the water, but unlike the others, they do not live in open water. They choose instead to dig down to the water table and soak themselves in privacy. Wet yards, open fields, and other non-crayfish type places are home to this unique crustacean, although they also build right next to ponds and marshes. Hauling up pea-sized pellets of wet soil, the Chimney Crayfish deposit them in a ring which builds up around the surface entrance. These clay pebble towers can reach a nose-bleed height of 12 inches in the springtime, but eventually wash away under the punishment of heavy rains (although the burrows remain).

One enterprising little digger in my yard has built himself a 4 1/2 in. structure. They are active only at night, so I haven’t been able to spot him yet. A couple of flash light trips to the backyard to catch a glimpse of this honest crayfish have proved fruitless. He added a 1/4 inch of mud to his chimney last night while I was dreaming about a stupid joke I just read in which one snake was complaining to another about the fact that he ‘didn’t have a pot to hiss in.’ Chimney Crayfish are mostly scavengers so, besides chimney building, the usual night-time activity involves searching for dead earthworms and rotten vegetation. They retain water within their body cavities on these dry land forays and breath with internal gills. Of course, being crayfish, they have a substantial pair of pincers which are equally qualified for handling mud or food bits.

Taking all this into consideration, I really don’t have any idea why the specific name was given. A naturalist named Girard was responsible for this, but he did it back in 1859. He is either dead or currently the oldest member of the Diogenes Naturist Sun Club, so we can’t ask him. The fact that Chimney Crayfish hole themselves up within clay “containers”, seems to be the only relation they have to philosophers in clay pots.

In the long run, it doesn’t matter. To the average Jill or Joe, this crayfish has plenty of names. “Burrowing Crayfish” is both appropriate and descriptive. In some parts they are known as “Meadow Crayfish.” “Devil Crayfish” is one of the dumber names – probably in reference to the reddish highlights on the body. To one elderly Monroe county farmer, the familiar little mud chimneys were known as “Frog Towers.”

I’d like to leave this discussion with a word of philosophical wisdom regarding Chimney Crayfish and their burrows. Enjoy them for what they are and leave it at that. Perhaps you can try and spot one some night or read up on their life history. Do not, however, attempt to find out how deep their burrows go. Be happy in knowing that they go down to the water table and the tunnels basically spiral down through the earth. Last year I decided to find out for myself and poured Plaster of Paris down a small Chimney Crayfish tunnel not far from my front door. I wanted to make a cast of the burrow. With an emphasis on the word “small”, this small hole seemed to be bottomless. After pumping in at least 50 gallons of Plaster (perhaps I exaggerate a bit) the top finally overflowed. I started to dig it out a few hours later and found myself excavating a four foot hole that took the better half (actually the worst half) of the afternoon. The spiral hole ended in a sharp turn well below the foundation of the house. While extended head down in the expansive cavity, I heard strange voices down there – sounding like a variant of the Greek tongue. I soon realized that these phrases were issuing from my own mouth. I was inventing new names for this crayfish, but they weren’t nice ones.

In the end, I ended up with a nice cast of a crayfish burrow, a dead crayfish (let’s not talk about that) and one more thing checked off my life list.  In retrospect, Diogenes would have been proud of my dog-like digging ability.