Hoards of impatient shoppers and parking lot tensions freak me out as the Christmas shopping season begins, hence my desire to partake in Internet shopping from the safety of my home office, where I am safe in my shell alongside my pet turtle, Troy.
The more people I meet, the more I like my turtle. We share a deep appreciation for solitude. Sadly, with the mad rush of the holidays upon us, even my turtle seems to be suffering from anxiety.
At first I thought it was an identity crisis. Troy, named for the lead character in the Disney teen musical (as if that isn’t horrible enough), was formerly my son’s pet, whose fifth birthday wish was to use his gift money to purchase a red-eared slider turtle.
We can file this memory in the “what was I thinking?” folder (along with the retro Peter Pan suede boots and matching corduroy mini-skirt).
Five years later, the boy child has abandoned Troy for more interesting pursuits, and because you cannot just dump a turtle in the Grand River (despite the Carpenter’s threats to do so), I have adopted Troy as my new roommate. In return, my red-eared friend asks for nothing more than shrimp bites and a warm light, while offering silent approval of my prose. I love my turtle.
Perhaps Troy’s anxiety is due to my pet name for him: “my little chicken.” Perhaps he is confused. Sometimes I cluck at him. Suffice it to say, I want to be farmer and a turtle is about as close as I can get. Until I can have my own chickens, I will cluck at my turtle. This makes sense to me somehow.
As turtles have a life expectancy of 30 years, Troy has everything he needs to feel at home in the writing room. I know he won’t read this, so I will be honest with you: Troy stinks. He has odour issues. I won’t even share with you what the sound of constantly running water flowing through his filter does to me when I work. It’s not pretty. But his needs are simple and his calming effect is too.
To keep my roomie happy, I invested in a $5 suction system to pull the slime juice out of his tank. The Carpenter helps me because he knows more than I do about siphoning fluids from tanks (I think he had a misspent youth). The point is, I think the suction tool freaks Troy out.
It could also be the fact that I recently gave him a proper bath by actually wiping his shell down. I may have crossed a roommate line there. Maybe that is why Troy spends so much time in his shell. I wish I could do that. Sensitive souls need hard exteriors.
In the spirit of the season, I bought my little semi-aquatic buddy two gold fish to brighten his world. The fish are named Jingle and Noel. They keep him company and eat the sludge. It’s a perfect scenario. I’m not sure he’s happy just yet, but I have stopped clucking at Troy, as he is clearly embarrassed.
The moral of the story is: this Christmas, be grateful you aren’t stuck in a tank with two cheerful fish with a woman who stands over you and calls you her chicken while feeding you stale shrimp bites. Seriously people, get merry already. ‘Tis the season.