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 difference between psychiatry and dermatology? Lipstick.

I'm often fascinated by the facial features of humans. Specifically, how much more they can communicate than a reptile. See, here's what I can say: eyes open, eyes closed. That's I'm watching you, I'm not. I can't say I'm watching you because I think you are a good-for-nothing crook. Well, I could be saying that, but it looks identical to when I say the curve of your plastron is a total turn-on and I want you to fertilize my eggs. Do you see the problem? And do you see why male box turtles have had to evolve long rear claws to hold open the female's shell in the back? You hairless pink monkey girls think you have a hard time commuicating with your mates. Did I say pink? I meant pink and brown and tan and olive and - well, you get the idea.

Binocular vision seems like an interesting concept. If you don't mind people sneaking up behind you. I see Derick William Dalton's kids try this on each other once in a while. The problem is, they always giggle before they pounce. I suppose it's kind of cute, but how does he expect them to survive in the wild like that? One little giggle, zero point eight seconds, that's all I need to close up shop. Then who's giggling? Me. From inside my fortress. Of course, eyes on the side, of which I'm very fond I'll have you know, would be more efficient without the bulk of the rest of my turtleness. I'm not complaining about my figure. I am quite comfortable with my body shape, and Animal Planet with all those half-starved zoo models will not injure my self-image. Does that Russian tortoise really think she's attractive with glistening mango juice on her face? And the way she sticks her back legs out of the shell much farther than is comfortable? That's not biology, that's just a floozy show. Besides, the size of my shell doesn't matter. My neck is long and flexible, and I can easily peek around behind it.

Here's what I wish I did have, though. Lips and a dimple. Then I could smile, the dimple would dent into my right cheek, and I would be adorable. More adorable, I mean. The lips, on the other hand, aren't for what you think. It has nothing to do with food or affection, only communication. Picture this: eyes open, red lipstick. That means hello. Eyes open, red lipstick, and dimple: let's be friends. With the eyes closed, there are so many possibilities. With a hiss or two thrown in, I have an anthropologically recognized language.

Blue lipstick? Interesting possibilities for meanings. I'll have to read up on my Mary Kay and Sigmund Freud and get back to you.

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.