Thursday, August 4, 2011

So long old friend.....

Shortly after she woke up this morning, Jen opened the back door that leads onto our porch and discovered something terrible. The local raccoon had paid a visit overnight and killed my pet turtle who was in a small basin on the table. I went out, surveyed the damage, sat down and sobbed a bit. I've called my Mom sobbing today. TWICE. I'll probably cry again before the day is through. Over a turtle, you ask? Yeah. A really great turtle.

I don't remember exactly when I caught the musk turtle I'd later name Stinkpot, but in my mind it was right around the beginning of high school, maybe 1985? Stinkpot hailed from Little Squam Lake in the small town of Holderness, New Hampshire. It was an unimaginitive name, since Sternotherus odoratus is commonly known as a stinkpot. It was like naming a cat Kitty. I remember him giving off the musky stink the species releases as a defense when captured, but I was clearly undeterred, and decided right then and there that he would be my pet and come live with me in New York City.

I'm a reptile and amphibian guy (a herpetophile, if you must). I always have been, as long as I can remember. I grew up with four older sisters, none of whom feared reptiles in the least. I always remember there being pet turtles in the house. We spent a nice chunk of our summer every year on Squam Lake, which is where I learned how to catch frogs and turtles and I'm sure those turtles from my memories were from. I remember a painted turtle named Green Slime, after a patch of algae where it was found. Maybe unimaginative turtle names run in the family.

Appreciating reptiles is sort of like appreciating houseplants. You can't expect the kind of interaction you'll get with furry pets, but turtles are probably the best reptile ambassadors. They move at their own pace and can live to be hundreds of years old. They're cute...look at a hatchling turtle and tell me otherwise. Stinkpot's personality was a mix of reclusive and inquisitive, typical turtle. When I'd remove him from the water, he'd pull into his shell, but when set down, he'd slowly emerge, his kind little face pushing it's way out. Taking deep breaths through that little pointed snoot, he'd crane out his neck to survey his surroundings with those strangely expressive eyes. I used to put the very tip of my finger in the water and watch him slowly and very deliberately get ready to strike at it. He never got me, I could see it coming a mile away. But I thoroughly enjoyed watching him go through the paces at his own pace.

The last few years he'd been living in a community tank with 2 other turtles, including Gertie, a Florida cooter who absolutely dwarfed him in size. Those two were the best of friends, always basking together, sometimes with Stinkpot using Gertie as his basking rock. I liked that they got along, big turtle and small turtle, different species but turtles united under the order Chelonia. Stinkpot was an adult when I caught him, and was a pet for at least 25 years, pretty much my adult life. For all I know, he could have been older than me. That turtle knew me when I was a virgin with two legs. He was around that time I had a mullet, for all those relationships that went sour and felt like the end of the world. How much easier my life would have been all those years if I could have just taken it at his pace.

When I took him out here just recently to give him some TLC for the skin fungus he'd contracted, he seemed older. He'd lost a lot of the stored fat that made his legs look like he'd been filled into his shell with a piping bag and he didn't seem to have the same kind of energy he once did. I wondered if he may not be at the end of his road. But the fungus got better, and he was eating, only to get poached by a raccoon. That should have been the one thing I didn't have to worry about protecting him from in the big city. It was really hard seeing him torn and shucked like an oyster, an empty upside down shell buzzing with flies. It was like getting called in to ID your murdered friend.

I thought about keeping his shell, but realized I had no desire to clean it of what flesh remained, nor did I want a memory of finding him that way. I'd bury him if I didn't fear raccoons coming to exhume him. I hate the fact that I just have to discard him. He's not trash. I lost a longtime companion, even if he was only a reptile. The sadness I feel speaks to the positive effect he had on my life. I will truly miss him, and it's killing me that he went the way he did, even though it was in the most natural of ways. Not even the city can hold the laws of nature in check. Stinkpot, you were a fine specimen, and I am most grateful for all the time I had you in my care.

I'll end with a link to a fantastic NY Times article about turtles from a few years back. Read it if you've got the time, it will make you appreciate the ambassadors of the reptile world a little more.