MEXICO 
TURTLEMy goldfish died last week. It’s not the first time this has happened or will it be the last. As I pressed the handle and flushed him/her to that great aquarium in the sky, I thought back on how my mother handled these situations when I was a child. Back then, I had dozens and dozens of fish and turtles, those types of pets that tend to give up the ghost on a regular basis; so I just know that she had to have been a mighty deperate woman.
Then as now, I was a great big drama queen. Age has only given me the gift of restraint, but believe you me, I feel it just the same. When I was a kid, I had no filters. That’s not to say that I can’t pitch a big old hissy-fit now and then, but I reserve them for the passing of warm-blooded creatures with fur. There’s a big difference and you have to draw the line somewhere.
One of the biggest lies that my mother told me was to stave off a “State Funeral” over my turtle Speedy Gonzales when I was five years old. I went to feed him and his bowl-mate “Slow Poke Slugger” and Speedy was gone. Now I was never the greatest at math, but I certainly grasped the concept that one was less than two. I checked under the plastic palm tree and on the table around the bowl. Getting down on my hands and scabby little knees I checked the floor. Realizing that he was well and truly gone, I shrieked so loudly that my mother had to think fast.
“Oh, Marsie…,” she said sorrowfully, “Speedy Gonzales is gone.”
“Gone?” I asked, wide-eyed, my chubby little chin beginning to quiver.
“Yes, gone.” She sighed dramatically for emphasis.
“Your Daddy and I found his shell in front of the kitchen door this morning.”
“His shell?”
“Yes, he ran away and the only way he could fit under the door was to take his shell off and leave it behind.”
Even at that tender age I had enough sense about me to not believe that a turtle could remove his shell. “
How could he do that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but he did,” she replied, summoning all of her “I’m the mother and know everything” authority.
Then as now, I was a great big drama queen. Age has only given me the gift of restraint, but believe you me, I feel it just the same. When I was a kid, I had no filters. That’s not to say that I can’t pitch a big old hissy-fit now and then, but I reserve them for the passing of warm-blooded creatures with fur. There’s a big difference and you have to draw the line somewhere.
One of the biggest lies that my mother told me was to stave off a “State Funeral” over my turtle Speedy Gonzales when I was five years old. I went to feed him and his bowl-mate “Slow Poke Slugger” and Speedy was gone. Now I was never the greatest at math, but I certainly grasped the concept that one was less than two. I checked under the plastic palm tree and on the table around the bowl. Getting down on my hands and scabby little knees I checked the floor. Realizing that he was well and truly gone, I shrieked so loudly that my mother had to think fast.
“Oh, Marsie…,” she said sorrowfully, “Speedy Gonzales is gone.”
“Gone?” I asked, wide-eyed, my chubby little chin beginning to quiver.
“Yes, gone.” She sighed dramatically for emphasis.
“Your Daddy and I found his shell in front of the kitchen door this morning.”
“His shell?”
“Yes, he ran away and the only way he could fit under the door was to take his shell off and leave it behind.”
Even at that tender age I had enough sense about me to not believe that a turtle could remove his shell. “
How could he do that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but he did,” she replied, summoning all of her “I’m the mother and know everything” authority.
She followed me into the kitchen where I was busily examining the small sliver of space between the door and the floor.
“He left a note,” she continued, lying through her teeth, probably hoping against hope that I wouldn't ask to see the evidence.
“It said that he was sorry, but he had to go home and visit his family in Mexico.”
“But what is he going to do without his shell?” I wondered.
“It’s warm in Mexico,” she said with a perfectly straight face, “So turtles don’t need to wear them there.”
That’s where my memory fades. Something tells me that Speedy Gonzales died and my parents found him first. But to make sure I’m going to Google “Naked Mexican Turtles.”
You just never know…
“It said that he was sorry, but he had to go home and visit his family in Mexico.”
“But what is he going to do without his shell?” I wondered.
“It’s warm in Mexico,” she said with a perfectly straight face, “So turtles don’t need to wear them there.”
That’s where my memory fades. Something tells me that Speedy Gonzales died and my parents found him first. But to make sure I’m going to Google “Naked Mexican Turtles.”
You just never know…
