Rereading the last post, I realize how wonderful you are. You read it, and there’s not one bad comment! In my head, the last post was…cohesive…and…
I marvel at my capacity for wishful thinking.
So here’s the deal: I’ll keep posting, and it may or may not be
readable interesting, and hopefully, my sense of humor will be tricked into returning.
Great inspiration for doing, not thinking, can be found at The Barb Wire. (Thank you, Tamara!)
Once upon a time, there was a woman named, oh I don’t know….Jane…who lived in a house with 32 front stairs, in a dust-scented, sun-dappled redwood forest. Her three horses lived a few miles away.
She was definitely not in danger of being a crazy cat-lady. She only had two cats.
And two dogs, and four parrots, and one bunny, and one large box turtle, Celeste.
One day, Jane noticed Celeste wasn’t feeling well.
Jane liked to watch Celeste eat. Celeste’s fast snatching, and slow, methodical chomping made her think of prehistoric things like raptors, T-Rex’s, tangly jungles, and plants that eat bugs.
Everyone knows these things are cool, and much nicer to think about than calculating wholesale output + shipping costs, X expected shelf foot-print, X expected turn over time, = potential markup.
Or having to ask the really big shirtless guy to please remove the expensive silk scarf he’s trying to shoplift out of his armpit.
Yes, watching Celeste poke her head out of her expandable neck, and snap up a piece of lettuce like a predator, then freeze, presumably to see if a bigger predator happened to notice her, is a lot more fun than looking up at a big smelly guy while both of you pretend it’s normal that he’s pulling an unpaid-for scarf out of …blech.
Celeste’s golden eyes were dull. She hadn’t moved all night. A normal person would kiss the box turtle goodbye. Abnormal people cart their turtles to the reptile veterinarian for a check up.
The vet is surprised to see a common box turtle. He usually sees only very rare and expensive reptiles. He was probably thinking, “why doesn’t she just kiss the box turtle goodbye?”.
In what appears to be a miracle of divination, since Jane never left the exam room, the vet simply picks the turtle up, turns her this way and that, and determines that Celeste is suffering from an acute inner ear infection. (?!?)
She would need injections of antibiotics twice a day. Clear that sucker right up.
We’re all horse people, and we know how to give injections. How different can a turtle be?
The vet kinda can’t believe Jane’s onboard.
But he fills a syringe, grabs a leg, and shows her how to inject the antibiotic in between the scales of Celeste’s, uh, forearm.
When it’s time for antibiotics at home, Jane is pleasantly surprised: it’s easy to give a turtle a shot, and it seems pain-free.
The next morning, Celeste is bright-eyed. She glares at Jane for being late with breakfast. Jane is so so happy Celeste is better! Look, she’s totally grumpy! Jane feeds her, and gets ready for work, thinking she’ll give shot #3 on her way out the door.
Jane fills the syringe within sight of Celeste, who appears to notice nothing. This time, when Jane reaches her hand out to pick up Celeste, the turtle snaps herself shut like a boulder, one eye glint barely visible in the darkest recess of her shell. Not even a toenail is poking out with which to try to pry her open.
Jane is surprised:
- Turtles are smart?
- Gee, it probably does sting.
- Now what?
Jane calls the vet. “How do we give a shot to a rock?”
He says, “You’re going to laugh.”
Jane says, “Try me. I’m late for work.”
The vet says “Put her on the carpet flat side down, and push her. Like a kid would push a toy car.” he pauses, “I know this sounds unbelievable, but she’ll think she’s walking, and she’ll begin to walk. Then you can grab a leg.”
Jane is highly doubtful of this technique. Celeste has used an ancient skill of self-protection perfected by her ancestors over millions of years. Pushing her like a toy car?
But Jane removes her high heels, kneels on the carpet, and plays “car” with Celeste.
After a few passes and a half-hearted Vroom, Vroom, Celeste pokes her head out to check her legs: am I walking?
A leg pokes out. In a very short amount of time, Celeste is scuttling on her own, as fast as possible, away from the crazy human gleefully shouting “VROOM VROOM”.
Got the leg. Got the injection. Turtle made a full recovery.
How this relates to the blog:
There are hard things in our lives at the moment. We have two more surgeries scheduled for our still sick family member in April and May. We can’t exactly remember what it feels like not to be constantly worried and afraid. WE NEED TO LAUGH.
I’m thinking if I just tell you the clammed-up truth, pick up the blog, make car noises, and push it in silly ways, maybe my sense of humor will poke out its rusty, pre-historic scaled legs, make a break for it, and we can catch it while it’s fleeing?
Just thinking about sitting on the floor in my stockings, trying to grab the leg of a turtle determined to make it past the Himalaya of my handbag makes me laugh.
Want to help me give a turtle a shot?