An open letter to my box turtle.

A N + O P E N + L E T T E R
T O + M Y + T U R T L E

Dear Turtle,

First (and certainly foremost) let me extend my utmost sincere apologies for your name being Ding-Dong. When you were given to me by your horrid, white-trash previous owners when I was 12, my mind was blank. All I could think of was Bob or Larry. My mom said that both were undoubtedly stupid names for a turtle, and, because I didn't want to seem disagreeable, I acquiesced. But I wonder sometimes if you would have been better off if I hadn't been so annoyed by your anti-social tendencies and indecisiveness to eat bread and lettuce, therefore forming the acquisition of your current name of Ding-Dong. I was wrong for assigning you to this demise, as frustration became the best of me.

It would bother me more if I thought you cared, but you don't. You probably don't even realize that Ding-Dong is your name. I can tell by the way you act, walking with all your might into the full-size mirror because you've convinced yourself that there really is a turtle on the other side, that you don't understand much. You live in a world of confusion and mental peril. You are locked in my apartment and banished to pace the floors of the same five rooms for the rest of your life. When I feed you live worms and bread, you ignore it and trample over it, thus shedding the worm's blood onto my kitchen floor and ending an innocent life for nothing! Do you even remember that you don't eat dead worms? Why must the worm be sacrificed for your arrogant protest of captivity? When I take you outside in the yard to play, you instantly dart away as fast as your tiny limbs can carry you, totally unaware that if you ever did actually escape from me, you would no doubt shortly die hungry, lost, and alone on the streets of Saint Louis.

I wonder sometimes how I can justify my treatment of you. How I can feel so certain that I am doing what is best for you, even though every indication you have given has demonstrated that you want nothing to do with me; nor the luxury of a life without an aquarium and having free reign in my apartment, which is assaulted by the sound of Metro Station at 3 a.m., sounds of dance hall lust and human debauchery that must seem terribly terrifying and supernatural to you; nor with your diet, which consists of nothing but usually damp white bread and refrigerated earth worms; nor with your total lack of companionship with your own kind? You were a baby, I tell myself. You probably would have starved to death due to lack of feeding and fresh water; banished to an eternity of neglect from unconcerned owners that you once had. Living in the wild is tough, but living in captivity with owners that don't care about your well-being is worse. I am providing you with a better life than the one you would have had, even in your captive state, and even if you don't realize it. I repeat this to myself every day.

But what does this attitude really boil down to? How is it different from the ideals of politicians I despise who feel some need to protect us from ourselves? If, given a choice, you would crawl toward Freedom rather than Comfort (which I know you would, not even realizing what you were giving up), what right do I have to stop you?

There are arguments, justifications. I've been through them. These are the times when I am thankful that I completed a sociology class in high school , because it is clear that none of the arguments in favor of a paternalistic government rest on solid premises. I also cannot argue that I am in any way "superior" to you; we are only different sorts of creatures with different fundamental morals and goals in our short mortality.

So, in the end, I really can't justify myself, but nor do I plan to release you. The guilt I feel at ignoring this ethical paradox is greater than you could possibly imagine (keeping in mind that your wildest imaginings probably consist of nothing more than unknown combinations of sun-bathing and burrowing in wet soil). But I have tried. I have extended the twin hands of friendship and understanding, which is more than I can say for you. Do you remember the cardboard box lined with an old shirt I constructed for you to contribute to your warmth in winter hibernation? You urinated in it. The recently acquired female turtle roommate? You attacked her, biting both her arms and shell. After this cowardly display of masculinity, you tried to have sex with her! You proceeded on top of her as if this act of masochistic violence never occurred. I don't know what sick and twisted hostility bereaves your small turtle brain resulting in your unthinking brutality but us human creatures call this rape. It's a crime and it's not socially acceptable. Did you try in any way to show appreciation for the fact that I leave the curtains ajar to welcome in the warm sunlight, only to come home after school and watch you scurry away from me in fright and horror - as if I am some menacing giant looking to harm you. Your lunacy binge has gone on too long, small friend. It's time to turn your life around.

But I forgive you. It is not your fault, I remind myself; it is your nature. And this, I have come to realize, is the purest form of love. A love that requires nothing, that appreciates a being simply for being what it is, without thought of reward or reciprocation. I thank you for helping me find this almost Christ-like compassion within myself, a love that gives all with the full knowledge that nothing, not even the simple cognition of my kind acts, is forthcoming. Because I realize, all too well, that should you one day become much larger, due to, say, some sort of "enlarge laser," you would not hesitate to devour me.

I love you, Ding-Dong. My turtle, my pet, my friend.

John