About a turtle

I know all of you have been in torment waiting for the next tantalizing installment in the saga of my exciting, awe-inspiring life. Trust me, this is going to be a letdown.

We have a turtle. The turtle has a name, but I don’t remember what it is. Obviously, the turtle is an integral element of our family’s everyday existence. Said turtle has been with us for over three years now. We never, believe me NEVER, expected it to last this long, but alas, the turtle has fortitude.

Turtles grow and change, and this turtle grew and grew and eventually, the dormant bleeding-heart, animal-rights-activist gene in mom and me started to show through. The turtle needed a new home, a bigger home. You had to feel bad for the turtle; his (or her, we respect the turtle’s privacy) current quarters were so small he couldn’t even swim. In the animal kingdom, we were considered slumlords. However, there is some background involved.

We started to see months ago, maybe even years ago, that the turtle was unhappy. It’s possible, I suppose, that the connection I fancied was never really there at all. At night we could hear him scratching, trying to climb away, but to no avail. He wouldn’t eat. His favorite hobbies lost all charm. The turtle became despondent and spent more and more time in its shell with each passing day. It seemed he (or she) had lost the will to live altogether, or at least the will to live with us. Our suspicions were confirmed a few months back when we returned from a vacation. While we were away the turtle spent some time with the grandparents. After all the recent disturbing behavior, we felt the turtle didn’t need to be alone for long periods of time. We thought the change would do him good. After picking him up to take home we made a brief stop. In a moment of clumsiness his bowl-thingy was bumped and the resulting slosh of water carried him out of the bowl-thingy, out of the car and onto the pavement 18 horrifying inches below. He landed on his feet and in a flash (or whatever word defines the breakneck, top speed of a turtle) he was off. The turtle charged forward under the mammoth weight of his shell. From somewhere we heard the faint tune of “Born Free.” It’s as if we were moving in slow motion, all seemed lost until Rebekah, in what I know was strenuous effort, bent over, picked the turtle up between thumb and forefinger and replaced him in his bowl-thingy.

After that we knew something had to be done. Something had to change. But we didn’t know what. We thought of counseling. We thought of sending the turtle away, placing him in the lake. But we were afraid. Afraid of the change, of the acute silence coming from the bowl-thingy, afraid of ourselves. If we sent him out with the big turtles, would he be scared, eaten? In desperation we pondered this. And eventually, after what had to be at least four minutes, CSI came back from the commercial break, and like so many of life’s perplexing problems, this too was swept under the rug, unresolved.

Several months later, while we stood in front of PetCo, we were reminded. We couldn’t escape it this time. Sacrifices must be made for a relationship to survive. We purchased a new and larger bowl-thingy (it’s an Olympic-sized swimming pool in comparison to what the turtle previously had) and a few accessories to brighten the place up. We could see the gratefulness in the turtle’s body language as he took his first full-length swim across. We had made the turtle happy. Though now, it’s been a few days and many of the same old problems are resurfacing, some new ones, too. It’s almost like he’s holding it over our heads, my head especially. The turtle must know I’m jealous. I think of him in his big bowl-thingy with his plastic plants and three-tiered AQUAEL Resin rock, and I think, why can’t I have a place to call my own? But, we’ll work through it.