Harold’s Room
Chapter Four
I know that with the hints I’ve dropped you’ve been wondering (probably chomping at the bit), so let’s touch on Harold’s social life and get it out of the way so your curiosity is satisfied, and Lisa quits fretting about it. We’ll put it to bed, so-to-speak, so we can get on with other things.
Interesting aside before we get started. You know how Harold stands in front of Lisa’s chair looking for her when she is supposed to be there, in his mind at least, but isn’t? I stayed up writing quite late last night and didn’t get to bed until three. I slept until bloody noon. I meant to be up by nine. When I finally dragged my lazy self out of bed Lisa had a picture to show me. My sweet boy Harold was standing in front of MY chair with his head craned upward looking for me this morning. I am supposed to be in that chair on Sunday morning by nine fifteen sharp. The feeders are supposed to be filled, the banana and whatever other turtle and Phil fare I have about are supposed to be on the red plastic plates at the edge of the woods. (I don’t use the paper plates anymore, and I drilled holes in the plastic ones so water drains out and doesn’t ruin the food.) Lisa is supposed to be reading and puzzling, and I am supposed to be sipping coffee and jabbering. Lisa said he checked my chair several times. I did not know until this very morning, or afternoon I guess I should say, that he has the same reaction over my absence as he does Lisa’s. I am touched.
Onward! I have mentioned how at this time of the year Harold’s interest drifts from eating, bathing, exploring and lounging to scanning the yard and the edge of the woods for members of his species of the opposite sex. I don’t have accurate dates, but from memory it starts to manifest itself around the second week of July, and his appetite drops off dramatically through July and August. Today is August tenth. He has nibbled a bit the last two weeks or so, but there have been no feasts of twelve to fifteen mealworms, with side dishes, for several weeks now. He has been very active, wandering around the room, mostly looking out at the back yard, patio and woods, sometimes climbing on top of the hut for a better vantage point, venturing into every corner, under every table, behind the furniture and the ficus. I came home from work one day a few weeks ago and he had knocked over Rick’s one iron and moved my floor lamp. If Harold wants to look at something, needs to move an obstacle to do so and is physically able to, he will. He even moves the dog biscuit container if it is in his way and not too full. He does have limits in getting a grip with his claws on the ceramic tile, but I have seen him move Dunbar the golden turtle. The fruit fly traps are no sweat and are where he believes they should be to suit his needs. The one in the potted jungle must be placed so that he can peer between the bamboo and brown pots at Lisa’s chair. He is sometimes somewhat furtive in his observations of her. If he were six foot six and two hundred eighty pounds she might be concerned. The trap under my table behind the mealworm farm ends up wherever he thinks it belongs that day. I do not consider fruit fly traps to be art pieces for display, but I’ve quit arguing with him about it. As long as they aren’t visible, I don’t interfere with his interior decorating.
We’ve had several visitors recently since Harold started getting antsy, some female, some male. We haven’t seen any young ones yet this year, which concerns us. All have been young adults to Grande Dames and Distinguished Gentlemen of the Woods. In prior years we have seen a few ranging in size from the diameter of a glass votive candle holder to the bottom of a sixteen ounce fountain drink. None this year. We hope to. Now I would like to take you back to Harold’s first summer here, Mid-August, and his first rendezvous. We had discovered that our local turtles, Phil the groundhog and the raccoons are fond of bananas, cantaloupe and watermelon, and during the summer we do eat our fair share of the melons. We had been getting the bananas early on after we moved here because we had discarded some over-ripe ones out in the feeding area to see if anyone liked them, and found out everyone did. Then we started to leave extra pulp on the melon rinds because I had witnessed turtles eating over-ripe melons in the field. Phil and the raccoons loved them too. We started to see two other groundhogs we did not know, and frequently there were two or three turtles in the feeding area at once. We also noticed that often when Phil would show up at least one turtle came at the same time, or shortly there-after, and sometimes two or three. That’s how I got the shot on the wall of Phil and his friend. They showed up simultaneously and both wanted cantaloupe and banana. And while Phil will chase away other animals interested in his daily offerings, sometimes even other groundhogs, neither he nor the other groundhogs ever bother the turtles. Lisa and I often wonder if the groundhogs and turtles have some rapport we do not understand. It remains a mystery, but the groundhogs and turtles still frequently show up at around the same time and play well together. Shortly after that photo of Phil and his friend was taken I ran into a windfall. I had been stopping once a week at a fruit stand set up in the parking lot at a convenience store located on my route home, which was, ironically, convenient. I usually got three or four cantaloupe, and occasionally a small watermelon. On this occasion when I stopped the nice lady asked me if Lisa and I were eating all of those melons. I explained to her that we cut up and ate what we wanted, and whatever was left over we put out for the animals. I showed her some pictures I had on my phone. Her response was, “They’re so cute! They’re precious! We have stuff every day that gets too ripe and we can’t sell it. A hog farmer comes by once a week and picks it up. If you buy a couple of melons for you and your wife, I’ll save you a couple two, three every week for your friends.” I told her I didn’t want to take advantage, but she replied, “Nonsense! You’re a good customer, coming in every week and all, and I don’t like to see the produce go to waste. I’d just as soon you and your friends got some of it as the hog farmer and his pigs get all of it.” She was as good as her word. The rest of that summer and early fall our feeding area became turtle and groundhog Mecca. I had such an abundance of melons I stopped cutting them up and doling them out and just smashed a whole melon in the feeding area and let them go at it as they wished, and when it was gone I would kick the rind into the woods and smash another. We began to see all three groundhogs at once, and as many as four or five turtles. Harold took great interest, and I started to catch on as to why he was off his feed. I began to go out and check the turtles as to age and sex (always after they had finished eating), and I encountered some prospective matches for Harold. This was when we first met the pretty young lady with the cream colored, soft-edged shell pattern. I invited her in for afternoon tea and set her down near Harold’s dish to see if any of his special delicacies not offered to the general turtle public might appeal to her. After a brief period of acclimatization she took a look and thought there were a few offerings on the platter she might like to try. Harold, who had been sunbathing in the glass panel to the right of the schoolhouse brick and had no idea I had invited a guest in for tea, suddenly realized she was there. By scent, by sound, I do not know, but he knew and turned to look. He thought she was absolutely beautiful. Do you know how long a box turtle’s legs truly are? From their usual stance it’s hard to tell, but when Harold has to surmount an obstacle, say a water dish, to achieve a goal, say an attractive young lady in whom he has some interest, the full extent of his legs come into play. They are actually a bit over two inches long and more than adequate to propel him over the sides of the water dish, in and out, and then he runs. Yes, Harold can run. Those suddenly much longer than expected legs lift him like a sprinter coming off the blocks and he is off to the races. The young lady saw him coming and decided she was no longer interested in sampling Harold’s Hors d’Oeuvres and a game of turtle tag was in order. Away she went with Harold in hot pursuit, and the game was afoot.
Imagine you’re at one of your favorite bars, and you see this incredibly hot chick having dinner and a couple of drinks with her friends. A not too ugly, somewhat older gentleman at the bar notices the hot chick and makes some exploratory advances, and though she is interested she doesn’t necessarily want to seem easy, nor does she want her friends to know she is interested in this older man, so she starts to bounce around the room. She does not dissuade the gentleman and allows him to chase her about. But she does not encourage him either. Does that sound familiar, Lisa? (We met at a bar, though she actually came there to meet me, not drink with other friends, at the behest of one Joe Brown, currently an apprentice curmudgeon to Mr. Fred Willman of Fred’s Bar & Grill. Joe told me he had someone he wanted me to meet, because, he said, “Two of the nicest people I have ever met in my life need to know each other.” Thank you Mr. Brown, for the compliment, and for introducing me to my future wife. I am seven years older than Lisa. She is the same age as my baby sister Judy, their birthdays within days of each other actually, and she was good friends with Judy before she ever knew I existed. Any further illumination I will leave to Lisa.) Eventually the young lady allows the older man to corner her, away from prying eyes. That was pretty much how it went. And once Harold’s young hot chick stopped bouncing around and let him catch her and corner her, the wooing began. Harold tapped around the front edge of her carapace with his beak, occasionally gripping it by the edge and gently shaking her, while she peered at him from the hunch-shouldered, forearms out position Harold assumes when he isn’t too sure about a situation. After this period of introduction Harold was accepted. She turned her back to him, and the real courtship began. Male box turtles have a concave area in their plastron that conforms to the curve of the female’s carapace. As the young lady turned her back to him Harold took full advantage of this tacit acceptance to climb upward and began to tap the front edge of her carapace gently from behind to further introduce himself and cement his acceptance. I kissed Lisa on the back of the neck while she was sitting at the bar watching football with me and Joe one Sunday evening, but that was midway during the development of our relationship, and she jumped away, startled. Harold was luckier. The young lady eased the tension on her rear plastron and allowed Harold entry. The result was most amusing. Once joined in their liaison of love, Harold tipped back away from her carapace and stood in a vertical position with both arms waving futilely in the air. Sorry to tell on you, Harold, but you were totally at her mercy at that point, and looked absolutely ridiculous.
Lisa and I waited patiently to see how this went. After several separations and rejoinings of Harold and his paramour Lisa asked, “How long does this go on?!!”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been privy to turtle sex,” I replied. “You have your phone. Look it up.”
“Oh my God,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“THREE HOURS! This can go on for THREE HOURS!” she exclaimed.
“Oh my,” I replied. “I had no idea.”
“If I had known that there is no way I would have let you bring her in here,” Lisa said. “He is going to molest that poor thing for THREE HOURS!”
“Uh, I don’t think anybody is molesting anybody here,” I replied. “If she doesn’t want him, all she has to do is clamp tight and there is no way he can do anything.” This is literally true. You need a thin, strong blade like a butter knife to slide between a box turtle’s plastron and carapace to pry it open. Seriously. Look it up. Unless the plastron is damaged, like Harold’s, it is virtually impossible to get to a box turtle if he or she does not want you to without a prying implement of some kind. If the young lady had not found Harold to be an acceptable mate, no way would he be able to force himself upon her. No way. Cannot happen. I explained this to Lisa.
“I don’t care,” she said. “No more liaisons for Harold while I’m here.” This rule is ironclad. Harold’s other dates have all taken place while Lisa was at work or elsewhere. And there have been several ladies who have thought Harold was entirely acceptable. There are two in particular who have come back of their own volition to visit Harold. They walk up on the patio and stand beneath the left side glass panel or the door looking in, and that is the absolute truth. I won’t say they are actually looking for Harold, but somehow or other they both end up there. If you have a better explanation I’d like to hear it. One who had visited with Harold the week before recently stood below the window and watched him while he was “with another woman.” She eventually got tired of waiting and went off to one of the red plastic plates and enjoyed some succulent banana and cantaloupe while Harold was “otherwise occupied.” I like her. She is one of the Grande Dames of the Forest, every bit as large and as mature as Harold, and she brooks no nonsense from him. He can’t push her around. She comes in, leads him on a merry chase, eventually says “Come on with your bad self, big boy,” and when she is done, she is done. “Thanks sailor, I had a good time,” she says, “Now buzz off. I have other business.” She knocks HIM around. You should see Harold when he pouts. It isn’t pretty. One day recently she told him she was done with his scaly little butt, and he did not listen. I had to come to his rescue, which I had never had to do before. The first time I came to succor him she had clamped down on his right rear toenails and would not let go. He tried to escape into his hot tub and was face down in the water clawing and digging with three legs, while his right rear leg was stretched painfully from the elevation of the tub to the floor where she had him firmly in her grasp. He stuck his head up out of the water and looked at me imploringly, “Help me, dad! Help me! I can’t get loose! She’s going to drown me!” I tickled her belly and she let him go. He bounded out of the tub and ran, and then hid in his hut and pouted. I do believe he was embarrassed at being woman-handled so. The next time she came to visit, got what she wanted and was done with him but he would not listen, I was in the kitchen. I heard the loud clunking of turtle shell on ceramic tile and came out to investigate. I found her nonchalantly sitting in the corner looking out the window with the toenails of both of Harold’s rear legs clamped between her rear plastron and carapace, and Harold lying on his side behind her on the floor flailing about like a drunken fool in the gutter trying to right himself. I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from laughing in his face as I once again tickled her belly to get her to set him free. And once again Harold ran to his hut and pouted. I like her. She is my kind of woman, much like Lisa, and will brook no nonsense. When The Grande Dame says, “We are done here, bubba. Go on about your business, and leave me alone,” she means it. Yup. I really like her. A lot. And Lisa, don’t tell me that Harold has his own way all of the time. This lady knows what she wants, when she wants it, and when she says she is tired of you, you had better listen, or you will be the butt of the joke. Got that Harold?
Over the past three years Harold has had multiple liaisons with other very handsome females, and the introduction/wooing does not vary, other than the duration of time required to gain their acceptance. All visitations depend on what day it is (Is Lisa working?), and what time they show up (What time does Lisa get off?). We let Lisa know when Harold has company, and she lets us know when it is time for me to give them our kind regards and apologies and show them the way out. This usually involves taking them out to one of the red plastic plates to see if they need a wee snack before they head home for the evening. Their response typically depends on the number of times they have visited previously. If comfortable, they accept. If not, they head for the nearest underbrush, within which, at the point of entering, they virtually disappear. Turn your back on a turtle and poof, they are gone, when they want to be. I assure you, if a turtle does not want to be seen, you will not see it. If you see it, it is because it does not care if you do.
Harold reminded me that I should tell you about the day two years ago on which it seemed all of the turtles in the area wanted to be seen. It was a warm, rainy, August day. I saw one turtle in the feeding area having a snack and brought it in to offer it some additional delicacies and a quick bath. It was totally covered in mud. When I had run its tub and gotten it settled in I came back into Harold’s room and lo and behold there was another turtle eating cantaloupe out in the feeding area. I went out and got it and brought it in for some treats. No more than thirty minutes later another came ambling across the yard. Same scenario. This went on until we had six turtles, not counting Harold, lined up across the floor for a quick photo shoot. Four of them were females, one of which was Harold’s cream colored beauty. Naturally he selected her as the one to whom he devoted his efforts at gaining attention. While Harold and his sweetie were occupied with getting reacquainted, the rest of our guests were bathed and then offered their choice of mealworms, cantaloupe, bread, watermelon and grapes from Harold’s private larder. They all made their selections, ate and returned to the woods. Later Harold’s girlfriend also had her choices (she is very fond of grapes) while I made him take an unwelcome bath, and then she departed. When we told Lisa about our big party she outlawed them. She advised us that this was tantamount to taking Harold to a house of ill repute and letting him select from the prostitutes (this is the incident that prompted her term “pimping Harold out”). Though we disagree with her, we have not had any more big parties, but then again, we haven’t had that many show up all at once since that day. If they should happen to at some point in the future, well hey… What happens in Harold’s room stays in Harold’s room. Right? Harold told me to say that. Not my idea. Honest, Lisa!
In departing from this segment of Harold’s adventures I have something I want to say to certain individuals who swerve to purposely run over turtles just to hear them pop: If it is your misfortune to do that while I am behind you, I will follow you. A box turtle is one of the most innocent creatures on the face of the earth and in no way deserves this sort of treatment. Period. I don’t care how often you go to church or what good deeds you do that you believe will gain you redemption for your evil ones, Ruby will not absolve you of this. It is the premeditated murder of an innocent. I have additional news for you. In many states they are protected, and intentionally harming one is subject to a substantial fine, along with charges of and fines for animal cruelty. Yup. You guessed it. In addition to finding out where you are going, and if possible who you are, I will be taking photos of your vehicle, your license plate and your face behind the wheel. Then I will be on the phone turning you in. Just bear in mind when you giggle as you hear that next turtle pop, this may be the most expensive “fun” you have ever had. I would highly suggest you look in your rearview mirror before you swerve to hit the next one, and if you see a still somewhat youthful and spry senior citizen in a white hat smoking a pipe driving a blue, slightly modified Camaro Z28 behind you (no, you won’t outrun me, all modifications are under the hood), if I were you I would seriously reconsider your decision to run over that innocent creature. I will do everything within my power to see that you pay handsomely for it and regret that decision. See you in court. Capiche?