Growing up, my parents were not big into letting my little sister and I have pets. Sure, we had some goldfish and tadpoles and even a couple of tiny hermit crabs, but they all died young. So young. Looking back now, I think my mother was to blame. I mean, she was the one who wouldn't allow us to bring anything into the house that had glitter on it, even if it was the most beautiful unicorn painting in the whole entire world and I painted it for her and why did we have to keep it in the garage where no one could see it? So I think that Mom was probably the one who snuffed out the lives of these smelly little fellers (I think I know now where I get my obsession to keep things clean). Or maybe they just never got fed, which could be my fault too. Hmm.
I was probably in second or third grade when Mom and Dad finally caved and allowed Sarah and I to get "real pets." No, not a dog or a cat, which would have been FANTASTIC. I looked at the little puppies so longingly when they took us to the pet shop that Saturday afternoon, but I knew I had to be happy with the fact that we were getting SOME kind of legit pet, and I could beg for a dog later. What did we get instead? RED-EARED TURTLES!! They lived in a large kiddie-pool at the back of the store, and Sarah chose one and named it Shelley (so clever...NOT) and I chose another and named it Henry. I don't know what inspired me to name it Henry, but I think the roles around its neck reminded me of Henry VIII (I was a history nerd, even at age seven).
After the salesman assured my parents about fifty times that both turtles were boys and would not breed, we took our new brothers home. Dad set up a huge tank in Sarah's room, put pebbles in the bottom, poured in gallon upon gallon of water, and arranged some large rocks so Henry and Shelley would have a place to sun themselves under the heat lamp attached to the side. Buying two turtles was probably not the best idea my parents ever had, and I'm sure they regretted their decision every time they walked into my sister's room for the next three years. After we had had Henry and Shelley for about a week, thick green fungus grew on the side of the tank walls, allowing the turts to escape our gaze while they went for a (naked?) swim. They also tended to spend too much time under the heat lamp, and their shells started to peel. I think the point when my mom lost all love for Henry and Shelley was when she had to start smearing cream on their shells every night before she went to bed. It was not a nice-smelling cream. And these were not nice-smelling turtles either. Every time we went on vacation, we would just pour half a jar of turtle food into the tank and hope for the best. Every time we came home, we would make Dad go into Sarah's room first to turn on the lights and make sure our little bros were still okay. And every time, they would be just swell. Now, I love my mom a whole lot, but I think she started to really hate Smelly Shelley and Henry. Especially when someone mentioned that turtles tend to live very veeeeery long lives. That's when disaster struck (but I am not pointing fingers at anyone).
It was the summer before I started the sixth grade, and we were going to visit my grandparents in Massachusetts for a couple of weeks, as we did every summer. But this year, we were leaving Henry and Shelley in the care of our neighbors, who also had a turtle that they kept outside in a kiddie-pool full of mud and rocks and water and other delicious turtley things. We went on our vacation and I never really thought of Henry and the fun he must be having on his reptilian vacation as well. When we got home though, Mrs. Minor came over to the house looking very worried. Immediately, I knew that something was wrong. She spoke to my mom in muted whispers and they kept looking at me and shaking their heads. Finally, Mom came over and explained that Henry had been missing for a few days. I scoffed. We didn't need to worry! Henry was definitely the feistier of the two turts and had a penchant for biting and trying to escape. Had he not worked so diligently to sharpen his toenails on the rocks so that picking him up was even MORE gross than it already was? I was confident that we would find him.
We trekked over to the Minor's backyard and began looking under bushes and behind trees for silly little Henry. I wondered if he had escaped under the fence into another backyard, so I hopped over and began searching in their bushes. Then I saw something that made my blood run cold. A familiar shell. Upside down. Sticking halfway out of some flowers. I edged closer and heard Mrs. Minor come up behind me. I heard her gasp as I picked up the shell and found that Henry was MISSING HIS HEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know, right? It was horrible. I saw Mrs. Minor walk a few feet and pick something up in a kleenex she had handily found in her pocket. It was Henry's HEAD. HENRY HAD BEEN BEHEADED!! Now, the first thing I thought was not, "Shit my turtle is dead and I loved him," or "I bet THAT hurt," but "I WONDER IF KARMA/ANN BOLEYN HAS CAUGHT UP WITH HENRY VIII ONCE AND FOR ALL???" (I told you, I was a huge nerd, even back then.)
In the end, we deduced that it must have been a raccoon that tried to eat Henry and ended up decapitating the feisty turtle when he tried to fight back. At least I know that my first real pet went down swinging. We had a small service and buried Henry in a shoebox in the backyard, though I have the sneaking suspicion that my parents later dug him back up and threw him unceremoniously into the trash. Shelley was never the same after Henry's murder. It wasn't long before we took Smelly Shelley up to the family farm and let him go free in the pond. I'm almost positive that Shelley probably starved to death, since he was so used to eating freeze-dried turtle food, but maybe a friendly lady turtle took him under her wing and taught him how to eat worms and bugs before they decided they loved each other and had baby turtles and made a Lifetime movie out of it. And so that is the story of Henry the Turtle and how he met his tragic end in the summer of 1995. I guess my parents felt like Sarah and I learned a lot from this experience, though, or maybe they were just so happy to get rid of that skanky old turtle tank that six months later, they decided to get us a dog. A real dog! But still, I'll never forget Henry and how historical karma can be a bitch.
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