[©2018 Beatrice Lee (author), Righttree Digital, LLC]
The snapping turtle moved ponderously smelling something sweet on the air. He moved one leg then another leg, reptilian head weaving a little, catching a sniff of the koi pond up at the farm. At the bottom of the hill was a cattail filled drainage creek where he had been for a while. But now the turtle was on the third day of his mission snapping up beetles and other unwary critters along the way. He was old; brown patterned shell about one and half feet long, bowed legs muscular. He probably weighed forty pounds. He had already patiently dug dirt and bent wire through two farm fences and had steady-on crossed those two pasture fields. The turtle was almost to the bottom of the last incline to the koi in the pond.
This day was a luscious shimmery steamy summer day. It was time to feed my beautiful koi, orange and black scales reflecting little points of light in between the algae and the waterlilies. I was making my way when I stopped at the top of the hill. The turtle was down below, and I realized just where this dinosaur, this almost dragon was heading, albeit slowly. Yes, this story is mythic. It is heroic. I ran and got my partner, Remo.
We stood next to each other at the top of the hill. I waited, feeling a little anxious for my koi, for my Remo and for the turtle. I never know what kind of solution Remo will come up with. Predictable he is not. Remo looked thoughtfully at the turtle, then he looked at me, then, again, at the turtle.
Now this story has two versions; the mythic version that shows the heart and the what-really-happened story that just does not do this moment justice.
Remo went into the house to get his gear and out to the storage shed to find tools. He put on his helmet and his chainmail shirt. He picked up his lasso. Remo straightened his back and took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what lay ahead. He looked at the turtle taking its measure. His first couple of tries didn’t work because the turtle’s head kept darting threateningly to-and-fro escaping the lasso. Remo skillfully dodged the snapping jaws, passion in his fighting dance. Remo settled the rope around the turtle’s neck and head, making a muzzle and a rein. A grin on his face, Remo, moving faster than the turtle could, leapt onto the turtle’s broad back. Whooping along the way, Remo rode that turtle triumphantly back to the creek.
Well, yes, I know. So, what-really-happened was that Remo came back from the house wearing heavy jeans, long sleeved shirt, and gloves. He got a shovel and wheel barrow from the shed. The turtle was paused at the bottom of the koi pond hill watching us nervously. Remo maneuvered the turtle around a bit finally getting the shovel under his body and turning him onto his shell back. Avoiding the snapping end, Remo managed to get him into the wheel barrow. The turtle was not a happy guy, his reptilian head weaving back and forth, having been denied his delicious smelling koi. Remo pushed the wheel barrow to the creek and upended it to release the turtle.
Whichever version of the story is your favorite, whichever one is the “true” one, both Remo and the turtle remember the golden shadow of that summer afternoon. The koi are still swimming in that pond. And the turtle, now even older, sits in the sun dreaming of the sweet koi smell and the indignity of being ridden back to the cattails.