My Tortoise, My Teacher
Now that Mycroft has emerged from an abnormally long hibernation, the Coleman household can exhale and proceed with spring. Wife Kathy and I were worried that he had gone on to glory, but for one detail. His terrarium passed the sniff test. A Russian tortoise, even one the size of a teacup saucer, is going to befoul his surroundings if the repose goes permanent.
A couple of facts about our resident herbivore:
- We know that Mycroft is a male thanks to his tail, which is long, thick and curved, compared to the female’s stubby counterpart. Also, the veterinarian said so.
- If you see a tortoise and toss it in a pond, don’t. A tortoise, be it Russian, Greek, Moorish or otherwise, is a land reptile. Mycroft enjoys a long winter’s nap, but he would not choose to “sleep with the fishes,” as Luca Brasi did in The Godfather.
- I want animals at the Coleman house to be content, and my casual research indicates that Mycroft is fine in his solitude. Opinions are mixed on Russian tortoise sociability. Our low-maintenance pal could experience ennui, but I’m convinced that he is a glad hermit.
And why not? Adopted from a family whose ministrations had wavered, he graduated from lodgings roughly 1’ x 2’ and extreme isolation to 3’ x 4’ accommodations and frequent contact with insufferably cheerful Homo sapiens. Kathy greets him each morning with, “Well, hello, Mycrofty”—a cutie-pie handle for a grim-faced gentleman. She tosses dandelions into his space, waits for him to approach and strokes his head with a fingertip. What could be more agreeable?
Our living conversation piece is named after a fictional detective’s brother. In short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, Mycroft Holmes’ powers of deduction exceed those of his younger brother Sherlock, but “he would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.” By coincidence, he takes his snuff from a tortoise-shell box at the Diogenes Club, where the most “unclubbable” men in London refrain from conversation. Not only does our armored slowpoke occupy an outsized portion of the dining room, but in warm weather he roams a 6’ x 8’ pen in the backyard. Kathy weeded and seeded the habitat yesterday, which is fair, I suppose. Not only does Mycrofty stand a good chance of surviving his adoptive parents—he can live for fifty years—but he earns his keep in unexpected ways.
For one thing, a pet that hibernates makes winter vacationing a snap. No boarding needed, no guilt, as with a dog, over separation anxiety. Awake or sleeping, bored or engaged, disgruntled or delighted, Mycroft abides. He could stand in for the Chinese farmer in an ancient parable. Ever so briefly:
A farmer’s horse runs away. His neighbors arrive to console him. He responds, “Good, bad, who can say?”
Days later the horse returns with two others. “What great luck!” his neighbors say. His answer: “Good, bad, who can say?”
While trying to tame one of the horses, the farmer’s son is bucked and breaks his leg. “Oh, how sad,” the neighbors say. The farmer’s reaction remains the same.
Soon thereafter the nation’s army comes to round up troops to serve in battle. The son is incapacitated and spared the danger of war. Of course, the farmer is steadfast.
The moral is obvious. Anyway, the only reminder I need of The Parable of the Chinese Farmer is a glance at Mycroft’s countenance. “Don’t get yourself in a lather, John,” he may as well say. Message received.
The most counterintuitive guidance our quiet comrade has given me regards partying. In short, many social gatherings and celebrations leave this recent retiree crotchety. Not sure why. Maybe it’s that the ground of even innocent encounters is currently strewn with eggshells. Alas, adulthood often comes with a simple obligation: Like it or not, show up. In such cases, I imitate Mycroft, and all is well with my soul.
Amidst those gathered, I find an open seat. As my girth sinks into the armchair or couch, the reptile within me hunkers in safety. If somebody brings me a drink, I nod slightly and mouth “thank you.” If a bouquet of dandelions or some other salad arrives, I won’t say no. If the host happens by and passes a finger over my forehead, I feign pleasure. Most important, when controversial topics arise, I become a Russian tortoise. Lacking a shell, I raise my shoulders up around my ears, slouch in place and keep vigil. Everybody can see the whites of my eyes.
Mycroft has taught me well. I relax and mind my manners. I love this life of mine, but I’ve yet to figure out how to achieve our tortoise’s tour de force. Ah, to nap for five or six months each year.
A Napper's Companion 