I got a turtle, and then some
You could say it all started with a T-shirt. I have a fetish for esoteric clothing – brightly colored things with snappy text and confounding images (and the occasional stripe) – and my eyes lit up when I found perfection in a cotton-polyester blend online one afternoon. The olive lettering on a beige backdrop stated, “I got a turtle” above, appropriately, a sketch of a turtle.
Naturally, I couldn’t not buy the shirt, and I spent the next week hanging out at my mailbox anxiously awaiting its arrival. (This was during the summer, mind you, so I only had to walk to the end of the driveway. However, had I been at school, I’d have made the daily Ulrich hike in a heartbeat. Nothing stands between me and looking sharp).
The padded envelope came, and, as soon as I could put down the bubble wrap, I donned the long-awaited T-shirt. Birds sang, children did cute things and confetti fell from the sky: All was well with the world.
I came back to Lehigh in August and soon realized my life was lacking something. But instead of finding love or alcohol (or biased media outlets or not-sports or any other edit desk fodder), I went out in search of a turtle.
My shirt had turned me into a liar, of course, and I couldn’t bear to live the life of a pathetic turtleless fraud. “I got a turtle” – yeah right, who was I kidding? Not only did I not have a turtle, but I hadn’t gotten one in the past (childhood pets notwithstanding; my parents were the ones who got those turtles).
My quest for redemption took me to Angels R Us in Allentown, Lehigh Valley’s self-proclaimed reptile specialists as well as the sketchiest pet store in the tri-state area.
But they had turtles. Oh yes, they had turtles.
Too many turtles, in fact. There were eight or nine of the critters in various locations throughout the store, and I spent ample time debating the pros and cons of each one. I didn’t want one of the grandfatherly tortoises; I wanted something young and swimmy, something that would make the ladies say “Aww!” (Impressing the ladies is always an important consideration.)
At last, I found the perfect little turtle. It was a baby, only two months old, and was busying itself by trying to swim through a rock. I pointed it out to the salesman, eliciting (I assume) whimpers from the other turtles, who had no other option but to realize there was only room for one reptile in my heart, as well as my cramped Brodhead House single.
The unnamed turtle and I headed home, I in the passenger seat of a friend’s Mitsubishi and my pet in a Tupperware container with strategically placed air holes. Upon my return to the Brodhead, several people exclaimed that I was awesome, others said I was crazy, and all of them asked what the turtle’s name was.
It was then that I realized the error of my ways. Sure, I had put time and effort into purchasing the optimal turtle, but I didn’t go prepared with a name. Everyone I knew had suggestions and I shortly came up with a list of nearly 10 possibilities. I spent that night tossing and turning, comparing Donatello to Fido to Dorito. The next morning I christened my new turtle Bling, and kept Mr. Turtleface as an official nickname. Additionally, I determined that Bling was a male, a fact verified later when he tried to initiate sexual relations with a plastic toy.
In the eight months I’ve had Bling, we’ve gone through a lot. I’ve taught him tricks, including how to bite my finger. He’s performed daring feats such as climbing up the couch and hiccupping. We’ve had our share of fights, most of them stemming from his assessment of my bed as a toilet. We spent Winter Break apart, as Continental Airlines told me that he’d have to travel as cargo. And there was the frightening period when his water heater broke and I woke up every morning afraid to find him dead in 60-degree water.
Despite our hardships, Bling and I have an unbreakable bond. In return for me giving him “a food” (the preferred term for one of his fish-meal pellets) every time he pesters me, he swims around and keeps me relaxed when I’d rather be throwing things. In some ways, he makes a pretty good puppy, albeit a tiny green one with a shell. He may not bark, nor come when I call his name, but he eats from my hand and demands my attention when I let him out of the tank. Plus he’s clumsy and runs into things often.
Just the other day, I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather by taking Bling outside. I loaded him into a bucket (try as I might, I haven’t been able to find a turtle-sized leash, and I can’t trust him to cross the street on his own) and we headed over to the Maginnes lawn. I chose a spot beneath some crab apple trees and deposited Bling onto the grass. As he played, I assumed the role of a protective parent, watching him wander around but not letting him stray too far.
It was a joy to observe Bling explore those few square meters of unknown terrain. He’d be fascinated by a parade of ants one moment, and then startled by a wind-blown blade of grass the next. But he was doughty in his journeying and kept plodding along.
I always want to know what Bling is thinking. What could possibly be going on in that M&M-sized brain of his? What makes him incessantly try to dog-paddle his way through his aquarium wall every time he sees me? Why does he perform his mating dance whenever I give him a food?
As I lay in the shade and studied the clouds, Bling crawling somewhere nearby, I knew I’d never be able to answer these questions. Bling can make me laugh or cry, cheer me up or get me irate; yet, I’ll never understand the motivations behind his actions. I’m sad to say this mirrors every friendship I’ve had – the good times and the struggles, the bliss and the heartache, and my complete confoundedness at it all.
Maybe I just need to stop thinking.
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