Bathtub Shelly

At the risk of making readers feel voyeuristic, a peek into my hygiene regimen sheds some light upon the frustrations of depending on a mammal for support. A male mammal, what's worse.

Every other day or so, I am rudely awakened from my cozy cubby by Derick William Dalton's right hand pulling me out. One would think he'd know what "hiss" means by now. Snakes use the phrase to imply the listener has a sexy aroma. Turtles, on the other hand, use it as a gauntlet-dropping final straw to the rules of engagement. Of course, that's only because running away isn't an option. We usually just hide in our shells and laugh as predators break their teeth trying to get at us.

I am then carried to the bathroom sink where his grubby kids wash their hands after pooping (sometimes). Here I must note that he very kindly sets the water temperature to a perfectly toasty temperature. But then he leaves me there for forty minutes, and by that time it's chilly. The first ten minutes is divine. I only need to come up for air three times, and I get all I can drink. But then I have to go, you know? So there I sit in pee water getting colder and colder. Of course, this is the one time when DWD decides to write. While I'm losing heat to dilute urine, he's blah blah blah starship engines, or blah blah blah alien pathophysiology.

I crawl as high up the side as I can, and stretch out my neck. There he is, sitting with his back to me. Blah blah blah futuristic geo-political-religious commentary. Boring! Well, except the part where the bad guy gets sucked into a spaceship drive, or out into the vacuum without a helmet, or has dental work with no anesthesia. But in the meantime, I've got a floater in here. I'm no microbiologist, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of a bath?

Finally, he comes in to drain the cesspool and wash me off. Then there's the fresh earthworm or macaroni and fish, as his handwashing-challenged kids call the food pellets. Good food under a snuggly heat lamp. Not bad.

Now if he wouldn't pretend to be Ringo Starr on the drums while I'm trying to sleep, life would be good.

My Impersonation of Steve McQueen, Sans Motorcycle

Just like my worm the other day, I almost escaped once. Derick William Dalton turned me loose in the back yard for some exercise. I like to think he had concerns with my cardiovascular health, because if I find out he wants me to lose weight, I'm going to bite him.

The grass was cool, the sun was warm, and the breeze smelled better than the stale air of my terrarium. At first I was enjoying it. Then I started feeling a little exposed but quickly found the solution. The hillside. Cool dry dirt to dig and sagebrush under which to hide. When I'm not trying to catch anything in my mouth, I'm surprisingly quick. I waited until DWD was distracted by one of his kids and I was gone. I crawled under a tumbleweed, dug down, and flipped some of the dirt over me.

DWD spent hours looking for me. Almost stepped on me twice. His wife and the neighbors were out looking for a while, too. The sun went down, all got quiet and dark, and I didn't have to stay up until midnight listening to laser guns and starship explosions from the television. I enjoyed the peaceful sleep for several hours, but then I woke to notice bits of frost forming on the grass around me. And I smelled dog. Well, smelled, and the scar on the back of my shell was tingling due to the presence of some Voldermutt. No more sleep after that.

Obviously, the sunrise the next morning was my favorite of recent memory. That's how DWD found me, out in the open trying to thaw out, my legs and head stretched out to catch as much sun as I could. Not very ladylike, but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.

So, my terrarium doesn't seem so confining anymore. Just wish I had a baseball.

A Political Runt. Or is it rant?

I was trying to concentrate on an escaping worm yesterday. Don't you dare laugh at my lack of speed. Have you ever eaten one the size of your leg with no hands? My hard time was exacerbated as DWD was on another political tirade on the phone. Something about hating fancy felosi. Sounds like an Italian dressing, which is weird, because DWD loves salad. So do I for that matter, as he gives me the leftovers. He has started these rants a few times a day over some apparent change in a health fair. I think he must have attended one. If I were a betting girl, I'd say his cholesterol was checked and too high. DWD doesn't handling aging or lack of fitness very well.

I thought he was done so I started to nod off under my heat lamp, tummy full of earthy, wormy, goodness. Then he started in on trying to get money from some Irish guy. He wanted to bill O'Reilly or O'Malley or O'Someone. He had a lot of mean things to say about this person, too. This also made no sense as DWD does no work overseas. In fact, I suspect he simply does no work.

My point is though, why do you all stress out so much? Too much on your plate at work? Not enough on your plate at the table? Just hibernate. Take a break. It's a good rest. Then have sex when you wake up and pass on your genes. Nothing matters after that. Homo sapiens of the world, chill out.

Wait, what? You have to raise your young? Wow. That sucks.

Dawn of the Dinosaur

Just a small one, but with internet access. Take that, allosaurus!