Blind leading the bound

Derick William Dalton does not look his age, nor does he act it (but that's a different story). Mostly he laughs about it when others are surprised by his years, as he is much less droopy and bald and gray than he ought to be. On occasion though, it bothers him, and I'm trying to find out why.

A few days ago at his "job" (notice I didn't say work, because he doesn't) it happened again, and I got to hear him telling someone about it on the phone. "Blah blah blah lecture on stuff they read on the internet, yadda yadda tell me how to do my job." That was the first ten minutes of the conversation, although "conversation" isn't really accurate because the person on the other end had a chance to say three words, tops. Then my favorite quote of the conversation: "I hate it when my baby face is all people can see!"

Well, human boy, you insist on wearing clothes, so that's their only option. I got more confused as he continued his ranting, something about two bastard's degrees. I thought I knew what that word meant, and I certainly didn't think it was insulting, especially for most reptiles who don't even know their parents, much less have some kind of community-supported connection. Perhaps I don't understand, as how would one earn that title twice? The only explanation that makes sense to me is his parents married after he was conceived and then divorced before he was born. I may never know, as that's not really a polite-company conversation topic, especially not to ask of the person who provides the food. Although with a cup of tea, an extended pinky, and a British accent, it might be fine. "I say, Nigel, word is you're illegitimate as the son of a cockney dilly, what?"

The connection of the timing of his birth, parents' marital status, and his appearance is beyond me. I do know this, though. People make an awful big deal out of their physical attributes when they don't even look any different than a fetus. What's the point if you are going to be soft and weak and helpless and then try to look like it too? They don't develop anything to be proud of like wings, claws, tails, gills, poisonous stingers or fangs, or best of all shells. Their physical strength relative to weight makes me embarrassed for them. They can't even detoxify their own waste, so they have to dilute it with huge volumes of water and spend hours peeing.

See, if turtles were as vain as humans, we'd have useful elective surgeries such as a teflon-coating of the plastron for smoother maneuvering across the ground. Well, females anyway. Males need to, how shall I say, have a high coefficient of friction to maintain a certain angle at certain times. They might go in for a good shell buffing on occasion, though, perhaps a remodeling of the supracaudal and marginal scutes of the carapace for easier burrowing.

But we aren't and we don't. We look old from hatching on, and don't feel the need to mess with nature. Close your eyes once in a while: droopy and bald and gray disappear for free, and suddenly firm and flowing and lustrous don't matter.

The price of sloth

I had the house to myself for a few days several months ago. Turns out Mr. Dalton fancies himself an amateur athlete and participated in one of those community let's-pretend-to-be-athletic-and-motivate-each-other-to-use-these-gym-membership-coupons-in-January-and-quit-by-February events. I heard all about it. Multiple times. I was bored of him telling the same story over and over on the phone, until I heard a new part.

He was describing some cramps, which was weird, because usually it's his wife describing cramps. “Should have trained harder. Now I'm paying the price of my sloth,” he said.

What? He has a sloth? I'm not the only non-human animal around here? He must keep it outside, since I've never seen it.

Then I caught on to yet another species-centric inaccurate facet of 21st century American English. I happen to have known a sloth once, and to associate him with slacker behavior is wrong and offensive. Just like it would be if I told DWD he's a lazy cracker. Wait, that doesn't fit the analogy at all...

So if DWD hadn't been acting slothful, he wouldn't have been in pain. Let me describe my sloth friend. He doesn't get from A to B as fast as those mid-west triathlon want-to-bes, and talking to him wasn't always an intellectual feast. But Sloth never stopped except to sleep. Just hung and watched and hung and ate and hung and helped sponge carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere with the cyanobacteria growing in his fur.

So maybe DWD's right. If he was exhibiting slothful behavior he wouldn't ever race around crazy trying to accomplish a list of goals that some guy on the television with extra shiny teeth and a nice suit said was important. He wouldn't have as much debt and wouldn't have to work as much and would have more time to climb trees. So he either wouldn't be trying to prove something to other humans in nasty spandex shorts, or he'd have more time to prepare and be cramp-less.

There's no way one turtle, as brilliant as she may be, is going to have an effect on cultural verbiage. But maybe I can nickname my friend so he's divorced from the tainted connotation. Here are some suggestions.

Pale-throated amenable
Brown-throated repose
Maned halcyon
Pygmy three-toed placid
Linnaeus's two-toed nonchalant

Tortoises at least get the “and the hare” story. Maybe some kid's book in the future will disseminate my genius and my friend's character to the masses with the title of The Amenable and the Rat Race.

Window to the world

I suppose giving Derick William Dalton a soapbox for his biased version of that last story won't hurt anything. As if we'd believe him.

In the meantime, I've been running loose in his house. The freedom is nice and the exploration is invigorating. The kitchen door has glass running nearly it's full height, so it's a great place for me to sit and enjoy the outdoors without subjecting myself to natural selection. Not that I'm against it, even though it is why I'm twelve centimeters instead of twelve meters long, and am forced to eat worms and leftover salad and patter through the house instead of eating trees and mammals while tromping through the forest making the ground shake. Natural selection is a great idea for populations, but it doesn't interest me personally. Have I grown soft in my domestication? Don't have what it takes to survive and reproduce in the wild? No, but how to explain it... I suppose if natural selection were a religion, I would be an unrepentant sinner. If it were a genre of art, I would be the avant garde. French Foreign Legion, I'm AWOL.

But mostly I'm at the window to watch the hummingbirds. Talk about natural selection. I can't tell if their behavior is from an inferiority complex over their size, or if they just like being small and zippy, with nothing to prove to anyone. Except to reptiles of course, but they fell off our wagon millions of years ago.

DWD put the feeders up on purpose as he likes the twittering and buzzing and iridescence. It was annoying at first. And I have to admit, as hard as that is to do, I was jealous as they hovered and moved faster than I could keep track. Luckily, my shell protects my psyche as well as internal organs. I get bitten, I laugh. Fragile little hummingbirds get one mistake. Ever.

I couldn't make out the twittering, so I started making up dialogue as I watched them eat.

“Then he says (slurp slurp) 'Let's hang out. (slurp slurp) I'll show you a flowering elderberry bush I found.' (slurp slurpee slurp)”

“Oh (sipsipsip) honey, (sipsipsip) that's so romantic! (sipsipsip) What did you (sipsipsip) do (sipsipsip) after?”

“Nothing (slurp slurp). Didn't go at all (slurp slurp). My ex came zooming out of a tree (slurp slurp) and it was a who's-beak-is-longest contest (slurp slurp) after that. They both forgot all about me (slururururp).

Which makes me wonder why they don't help each other out more. The females seem to get along, several drinking at the same time. But then a male chases them all off and spends more time watching his back than drinking himself. Two males never bond at the watering hole. They could learn a bit from the humans that way, but then they might have a harder time with the reproductive part of natural selection. Instead, it's action sequence aerial dogfights nearly all day. That part kept me interested until I got motion sickness.

Unless it's all a game. The males don't have to produce eggs, so maybe they aren't under the same calorie demands. The females want genes for their young from a guy who looks like he'll never make a mistake, so the males could spend all their time chasing each other around and the one who doesn't starve gets all the action. Maybe the females like getting chased. It burns off their energy so they can eat more. Perhaps the males pretend to chase each other around when the females are looking to impress them. Maybe they find a lookalike and one eats while the other flirts, then they switch off and split the rewards. Or maybe they switch off then, too.

Either way, there are about a dozen of them out there flying around like they haven't a care in the world, and the more I watch the more I get depressed. Maybe my shell's not as thick as I supposed. I'll outlast them like I did the rats, but that doesn't make me feel any better just now. But the forecast of four days of heavy rain does. Fly around in that, hummingbirds.