Pondering at Sixteen
I was looking at my turtle today. He was sitting on his rock. I did some calculating and figured out that the dimensions of his tank weren’t much bigger than those of my living room. Plus he pees in the water that he lives in.
It wasn’t right. He needed to get out once in a while. He needed to be free. So I decided to do something. I was going to let him out of his tank. He would be allowed to go wherever he wanted. No longer was I going to flaunt my human superiority. He would have choice. He would be free to be the turtle he wanted to be.
So I lifted the tank’s lid and moved my arm in to grab him. He was scared and jumped off his rock and into the water and tried to swim away, but I managed to grab him. Once he was out of the tank, I set him on the carpet. He didn’t move. I waited a minute, but he still didn’t move. I waited another minute. Then he moved two steps. I decided that I should shut the doors in my house, lest he get into the bathroom and ingest some cleaning chemicals. So I went around the house and shut all the doors and stuff towels under them, so he couldn’t squeeze his way in. Then I got hungry. I went to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. It was quite tasty. I returned to my room to watch some TV. I opened the door and
**CRUNCH**
I hoped what I felt beneath my foot was not what I thought I was feeling beneath my foot, but what I was feeling beneath my foot was indeed what I did not want to feel beneath my foot. I lifted up my leg and there was the bleeding shell of a dead free turtle.
As I stood next to the broken turtle, I comforted myself. He was free for fifteen or so minutes. He had walked seven feet from his tank to the door. That was farther than he ever had traveled. He at least got to know what it was like.
I held a funeral for the turtle later that day. I put the turtle in a shoebox and buried it in my back yard. There he would lie for eternity. The shoebox was pretty big because I have extra large feet. So he spent the rest of eternity in relative comfort.
As I covered his shoebox coffin with dirt, I realized I never knew what sex the turtle was.
It wasn’t right. He needed to get out once in a while. He needed to be free. So I decided to do something. I was going to let him out of his tank. He would be allowed to go wherever he wanted. No longer was I going to flaunt my human superiority. He would have choice. He would be free to be the turtle he wanted to be.
So I lifted the tank’s lid and moved my arm in to grab him. He was scared and jumped off his rock and into the water and tried to swim away, but I managed to grab him. Once he was out of the tank, I set him on the carpet. He didn’t move. I waited a minute, but he still didn’t move. I waited another minute. Then he moved two steps. I decided that I should shut the doors in my house, lest he get into the bathroom and ingest some cleaning chemicals. So I went around the house and shut all the doors and stuff towels under them, so he couldn’t squeeze his way in. Then I got hungry. I went to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. It was quite tasty. I returned to my room to watch some TV. I opened the door and
**CRUNCH**
I hoped what I felt beneath my foot was not what I thought I was feeling beneath my foot, but what I was feeling beneath my foot was indeed what I did not want to feel beneath my foot. I lifted up my leg and there was the bleeding shell of a dead free turtle.
As I stood next to the broken turtle, I comforted myself. He was free for fifteen or so minutes. He had walked seven feet from his tank to the door. That was farther than he ever had traveled. He at least got to know what it was like.
I held a funeral for the turtle later that day. I put the turtle in a shoebox and buried it in my back yard. There he would lie for eternity. The shoebox was pretty big because I have extra large feet. So he spent the rest of eternity in relative comfort.
As I covered his shoebox coffin with dirt, I realized I never knew what sex the turtle was.
posted by Jesse @ 11:57 PM
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