https://youtu.be/n3HxXpU6jHg
Ruby woke me this morning, a Sunday, shortly after six, and at six-thirty she told me to get my tail up. I felt that I really needed to do so, even though it was Sunday, and I did. I went into my usual routine, so first to the bathroom I went to clean and refill my pipe, and take care of “essential bidness.” Stripey Cat has taken to lolling in my bathroom doorway, rolling on her back, looking at me upside down and acting generally goofy. She loves to mess with me, but still won’t let me touch her. The other cats all wandered in, one after the other, all wanting a few pets, and wanting to know when I’d be done and would get on to the most important part of my morning routine: breakfast for kitties. I gave my pipe a last puff, finished my “bidness” and headed for the kitchen with Stripey Cat bouncing and skipping in front of me. I got the coffee started, went to the pantry and grabbed a can of flaked chicken in gravy, put it on the counter with the blue plastic stirring spoon, went to the sunroom and put three scoops of kibble in the clear plastic feeding pan, and then headed back to the kitchen with six cats in tow. I set the pan down by the chicken in gravy, grabbed the can and popped the lid. Immediately my three assistant chefs were on the counter: Pretty Face, Tiny Terry and Jackson. They waited semi-patiently as I scooped the goodies out of the can onto the kibble, then each snatched a sample bite to make sure it was okay. Stripey Cat had joined us by then, supervising from the bar, to which she gained access via bar stool as Jackson had taught her. The other two can make the jump from the floor. I started spinning the pan and pushing spoonfuls of kibble on top of the goodies to keep the boys from testing any more, and then started to scoop and mix all the while spinning the pan. When satisfied I laid the spoon on the counter and reached for the pan. Stripey Cat spun and left the bar as I picked it up. I said, “Let’s go girls.” Bootsie and Shy, who were at my feet, immediately trotted around the end of the counter in front of me, and I watched the three ladies haul ass for the sunroom. I heard three thuds behind me and knew the boys were off of the counter and on the way. I set the bowl down, and as they began to eat I grabbed their water/milk bowl and went back to the kitchen to clean and refill both sections of that. Next I went out for Lisa’s paper, then filled my coffee cup, retired to the sunroom and woke up my computer and the sound system. My initial morning tasks were completed.
I sat there for a few moments sipping my coffee and puffing on my pipe, and then I decided it was cool enough to open the door for a while, so I rose from my chair, went to the door and slid it wide. I stood there looking out into the woods, and then down toward my neighbors’ house to my left. Out of the corner of my right eye I noticed a brown lump with yellow patterns in the grass at the edge of the woods between our houses. I turned. A turtle was watching me. I remembered that I had left some sliced tomato on the counter that I intended to put out for the turtles, so I went to the kitchen and retrieved it. I very calmly and smoothly walked out hoping I wouldn’t startle the turtle, placed the paper plate on the ground near the waterhole, then turned and went straight back to the house sat down and started watching. He continued to sit right where I first saw him, head up, looking toward the plate. He and I sat watching for a very long while: he the plate, I him. The cats were finishing up their breakfast, and Shy came to the door to join me, but when she saw the turtle she walked out and over to him to take a better look. The cats don’t bother turtles. They were used to Harold being in the sunroom when they were tiny, and had seen turtles in the feeding area all summer after Harold left, so they are very, very familiar with them. They do like to look at them though, and as the others finished they went out on the patio, sat down and watched their sister inspect her find. The turtle drew his limbs and head partially into his shell, but sat there looking right back at Shy. Once her curiosity was satisfied she meandered off into the woods and went to the scratching tree. The others followed her into the woods, and the turtle was forgotten as they began to chase each other round and about and up the trees and the cat and squirrel gym. The turtle extended his legs and head and resumed his previous watching position, still rooted to the spot in which I had first seen him. He stayed there for a long, long time, maybe thirty minutes or so, looking at the plate with the tomatoes, then he came forward about ten feet and stopped again. He sat there for a while, and then he started moving again, angling toward the undergrowth at the edge of the woods in the feeding area underneath and around the birdbath. He disappeared into the foliage, and I watched his progress towards the plate by watching the plants shake. Then I saw his head poke out from between the leaves, and he sat still again for at least ten minutes just looking around to make sure the coast was clear. He finally emerged, went to the plate, pulled a slice of tomato off and began to munch.
I thought he might be “The Watcher,” a regular who comes often and is very familiar with me and my habits. He positioned himself beyond the plate directly facing the patio door as he worked on the slice of tomato, never letting his eyes leave it for more than a few seconds. I sat very still so as not to cause him to bolt for the bushes. He took his time, biting and chomping and looking up at the door. He finally finished his slice and turned to face the watering hole, then headed toward it. He ambled up to it, then slid slightly down the edge, leaned down and began to drink. Again he took his time, slowly sucking water, raising his head to look at the door, then down for more water.
It appeared he was finished and was starting to turn away when he slipped, and into the tiny pond he went. I just laughed. Turtles bathe in it all the time, but they seldom fall in. Once in, he decided to stay for a while. He paddled around a bit, then turned to face the door again and sat there and soaked. As is evident I had snapped a few pics, and I grabbed my phone again and went out to the edge of the patio. Usually when they see me coming turtles leave the tiny pond quickly, but he just sat there and watched me as I took photos of him.
I said to him, “I’m not coming out there. You’re good.” He remained still. I turned and came back into the sunroom and returned to my chair. He stayed in the pond and began to paddle around again. At this point I heard a noise in the kitchen. Lisa was up and pouring her coffee. “Lisa,” I said, “if you come right now you can see a turtle in the pond.” She had not yet seen any of our shelled friends this year. This was only the second I had seen so far. “Hurry,” I said, ‘or you’re going to miss him.”
“A turtle!” she said. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” She grabbed her coffee cup, joined me in the sunroom and slid into her chair. “How long has he been here?”
“About an hour now,” I replied. “He already met the cats, ate a slice of tomato, got a drink and fell into the pond. He’s been paddling around in there for a while. I was afraid he might be about finished and would leave before you got to see him.”
“He’s pretty,” she replied. “He kind of looks like Harold.”
“Yes he does,” I answered, “but his coloring is a little darker I think. Harold’s is a lighter yellow. His is more orange.”
We sipped our coffee and continued to watch him. After a few minutes he began to scrabble his way out of the pond, bracing his front feet on the edge and heaving upward. He hung there for a bit kicking forward with his rear legs trying to gain a foothold.
“I was going to check him after he was done with his bath,” I replied.
That’s something I usually do when I see turtles in the feeding area. When they are finished I go out, pick them up and look them over to be sure they aren’t injured, and to see if I recognize them, or, if not, to get a good look at their coloring and patterns so I’ll recognize them next time. I rose from my seat and out to the pond I went. I picked him up. He drew back into his shell a bit, but did not pull all of the way in and close tightly. Instead he curled his armored forearms and peered at me from between them. “He sure looks like Harold,” Lisa said.
I flipped him over to check his plastron. “No,” I said. “His belly is darker than Harold’s…” It was then I saw the crack in his plastron, angling from the center of the hinge to the left front edge where two of his toenails showed through the crack. My jaw dropped. “Oh my God!” I said. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Lisa asked. “Is he hurt?”
“Lisa. I think it is Harold. I’m almost positive it’s Harold.”
“No! You’re kidding! It’s Harold?!”
I turned him upright. As I did he extended his head and looked me dead in the eye. With his head fully exposed I could see the asymmetrical patterns, the telltale sign. All of the turtles who live around us have symmetrical patterns. All of them. If you have read the first chapter of Harold’s Room you know that Harold is not a Hoosier and was rescued over two hours away from where we live, and his pattern really has no pattern. It is more like random splatters from a piece of modern art. “LISA! IT’S HIM! IT’S HAROLD!”
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Let me see! Let me see!” Out the door she came. She looked at him. He turned his head and looked at her. She reached out and touched one of his front legs, both of which were now dangling. He did not flinch. He did not retract. He just looked at her. “HAROLD! You’re home!”
The three of us came into the house. I sat him on the floor, and instead of running for the door as most turtles do, he began to wander around. He headed for the lower windows over by the speaker system, then turned and looked at me. “Daddy,” Lisa said, “I think your boy wants some music.” I had not started the music yet because Lisa was still asleep, but now I obliged.
“I think we’ll start with some nice, quiet morning music,” I said. “Let’s see if he likes Buckethead. He’s never heard Bucket. Hmmm. Should we go with Rooms Of Illusions, or A Real Diamond In The Rough? Harold likes it rough, so I think we’ll go with that.” I started the album, and, just as if he had never left, Harold moved over to the window about eighteen inches from the Jellyfish speaker, settled in, and he began to listen. He likes Buckethead.
“Well,” I said, “now I wonder if he came back because he missed us, or because he missed his music?”
“A little of both I expect,” Lisa replied.
“I hope so,” I answered. After Buckethead was over I played his favorite song for him. Midway through it he moved closer to the speaker system. When it was over he looked at me. He has done that many times before, so I knew what it meant. I restarted the song, louder. His head came all of the way out, completely extended with his nose pointed upward. This is what I refer to as his listening position, what he does when he hears something he really, really likes. This song he really, really likes. It ended. He looked at me again. “One more time, Buddy. One more time. Lisa, we’re going to turn it way up now. He really wants to hear it. Is that okay?”
“Anything he wants. Today Harold can have anything he wants,” she said. And so, once again, Don Henley began belting out Everything Is Different Now, for the third time. We like that song too. It is on our wedding disc.
The rest of the day has been spent retrieving his turtle hut, food and water bowls, and his “hot tub” from the garage, cleaning, rearranging the plant tables, re-establishing Harold’s Enclave, and listening to music with Harold. Our Prodigal Son has returned. Harold is home. Instead of referring to it as the sunroom as we have for the past several months, we can once again say with all honesty, “We are sitting in Harold’s Room.”
