Turtle Tribulations

I woke up from a nap to a house full of smoke. Mind racing I moved through the rooms. Had I cooked anything today? Did I leave the oven on? The smoke was thicker as I moved towards the kitchen. It was not, however, coming from the stove. It was billowing out of the turtle tank.

Snocone, my three-toed box turtle, had flipped her hide-box on end. The top portion was touching the heat lamp. When the timer switched the light on, the box began to smolder. I cut the power to the lamp, and pulled the box out. Now that it had access to more oxygen, it burst into flames. Before it could burn my hand, I took it out and tossed it into the fire pit in my yard. Unfortunately, there was kindling in the pit. Two feet flames shot up. I grabbed a shovel and dug up a garden bed for the soil to smother the mini-inferno.

I returned to the house to find Bear, my shepherd-pit mix, eating Snocone. He must have stuck his head into the smoke filled tank after I removed the torched box. I pried open his jaws and removed the bloody reptile, nearly a quarter of the shell gone. The blood was thick and sticky, pooling in my palm. This was the first major turtle injury I had faced. I know that a turtle’s spine runs down the center of the shell. I could see the lungs and other organs. What looked like a leg bone was sticking out at an odd angle. Snocone did not move when prodded.

I decided to bury her in the yard before picking my kids up from day camp. They did not need the bloody part of the drama. The ground was hard, and the hole was shallow. I shifted a log from the now demolished garden bed over the top to keep predators from digging her up.

I told my girls the sad tale in the car. We talked about the memorials we would make to put on the log over her grave. We remembered what a spunky turtle she was. It was with heavy hearts we returned home to find Snocone crawling around the yard. She had dug herself out of her premature grave and was sashaying around the yard. Our zombie turtle was almost as freaked out as we were. Almost.

I had to find a vet for my zombie turtle, Snocone. There are plenty of 24 emergency vets for dogs and cats. Reptiles are a whole different kettle of, well, turtles. Research online led me to a well lauded vet in Berkeley. When I called the staff said the doc was not in, he’d be back in two days, but I should feel free to email him. I did and he gave me care instructions to tend to Snocone until he was back in the office.

Most injured turtles die within the first 24-48 hours. My little zombie was still creeping along after 72. I waited in the lobby of the vet office with my dishpan of injured turtle and the distress of having again failed a creature dependent on me.

Nutmeg had been my guinea pig in fifth grade. Like all ten year olds I was passionate about my pet and forgetful. The cage was often filthy and smelly, which drove my mother nuts. She demanded one warm day that I take the cage outside, give that thing some fresh air, get it away from her sewing machine, she had work to do. I did as she asked, reading by the cage in the backyard until lunch.

By the time I remembered that Nutmeg was still outside it was past dark. She was stiff. My hands shook and my stomach churned with revulsion. I could not touch her. I cried and cried. Well, my mother said, you should have taken better care of your pet. Come to bed. You can bury it in the morning.

I placed Nutmeg into a shoebox wrapped in my favorite doll blanket. I owed her that much. My mother told me to say a prayer before we buried the box. I bowed my head. Warm tears dripped onto my hands. I’m sorry. It was the only thing I could think. I’m sorry, I’ve learned my lesson, it won’t happen ever again.

My mother cut into the hard clay soil at the back of the yard where the garden had been. I listened to the chink of rocks against the spade. “Damn it!” I sucked in breath at my mother’s sudden sin of swearing and tried not to move. Littering the grey-brown soil were tiny pink babies, a whole nest of voles, unopened eyes and lungs like blue bruises on their tissue paper skin. They were so small, so helpless, so dead. This too, was my fault. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.

Back in Berkeley, the staff called out Snocone’s name and led me into a room to meet the reptile vet.

Dr. Ken Harkewicz has a warm smile and a generous nature. Once I recovered from his dramatic entrance, that was all I could see. He shuffled into the exam room bent almost in half over a walker, feet encased in giant frankenstein shoes. He lives with Charcot’s neuropathy - a progressive breakdown of weight bearing joints, making it painful to walk or stand for long periods. His scoliosis is getting more severe, he told me casually as he sat down and picked Snocone up to peer into her eyes.

“The thing to remember is never bury a reptile unless you are positive it is dead. Box turtles like this can hold their breath for 24 hours or more.” As he poked and prodded the damaged area of Snocone’s shell, Dr. Harkewicz dispensed turtle nerd trivia like passing out candy at halloween.

“Turtles are survivors. They’ve used this same design for 200 million years. It’s amazing!”

“Unlike humans, turtles don’t have a diaphragm.”

“Three-toed box turtles like this one are true omnivores whereas the western box turtle is much more of a carnivore.” I made a note in my sketchbook about this distinction, though in my experience, Mugsy, my western box turtle, eats everything I put in from of him. Snocone prefers to live on earthworms and the occasional banana slice.

Pulling a pen from the pocket of his blue plaid shirt, Dr. Harkewicz scribbled a few things in Snocone’s file. “This one’s in far better shape than I expected given your email. The outer scutes won’t grow back, but the inner layer will rebuild over time. She won’t look pretty, but she’ll be fine.”

The wound was cleaned out with a silver saline solution, then covered with an ointment to keep the innards moist. After applying a basic gauze bandage, the whole shell was wrapped with a flex bandage. I’d need to repeat those steps daily. I was shown the proper way to inject liquid antibiotics into the thigh muscle - holding the needle at a 45’ angle. I’d need to do this every three days until the supply ran out. I was bustled out with a grocery bag of supplies and assurances that I could email at anytime for advice. Wrapped in her red bandage, even Snocone seemed to smile.