A couple days I left before Miami, I dropped off my turtle, Noodles, at Robert’s house. Watching a turtle is very easy work, so easy in fact, Robert barely paid attention when I told him what to do.
“Give him as much food as will fit in his head. This much.” I had a small amount of turtle food in my hand to show Robert, who was flipping through his mail
“I’ll just call you if there’s a problem,” he said from the couch, clearly not interested.
Last time I left town, my Mom was watching Noodles and called me almost daily with problems:
The water was too dark.
He didn’t like the view.
He liked looking at flowers.
Can he eat grapes?
She fed him grapes and now he’s shitting everywhere.
Robert was on a rare break from work and had big plans about the things he was going to get done. As I boarded the plane, he sent me an email that said Have a Happy Flight, and a picture of Noodles.
The next day, Robert sent me a picture of Noodles called Il mange et nage. We were learning French together with the Rosetta Stone,, and all we knew was to describe people actively eating and swimming, alone or in groups. Robert could say milk and coffee, so he liked to talked about swimming in coffee or milk and eating something non-specific, until he learned bicycle, and then people ate bicycles and swam in coffee. Very advanced dialog.
I started getting worried Noodles would like Robert more than me. Robert gave him a lot of attention and took photos with props and themes and thought Noodles tried to act like he didn’t care about it, but a smile was developing on his little turtle face.
A few months after I found Noodles in my sink, I was worried he didn’t like me. He startled easily and hid when I came home. I called Jackie to tell her I thought he hated me.
“That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t hate you.”
“How do you know?”
“Two reasons. One, you’re very likable. And two, turtles don’t have feelings.”
When I went to pick up Noodles and bring him home, I had these visions of being shunned by a turtle showing an obvious disappointment when I arrived. Or a sad looking Robert as I took the turtle away.
When I found out Robert shot and killed a lizard with an air rifle on Easter, I wasn’t too concerned he would have formed a lasting attachment with my turtle, but I was still nervous about the reunion.
The lights were off when I walked in and when Robert turned them on, I walked up to Noodles tank and he swam towards me. I knelt down and we just stared at each other for a while.
“I missed you,” I said.
He just stared back at me, his face up against the glass.
“Did you like having him?” I asked Robert.
“I don’t want one.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted one. I asked if you had a good time watching him.”
“It was OK.”
“Just OK?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
A couple days later, I was at Robert’s as he plugged his iphone into his computer. When iphoto popped up, picture after picture of Noodles imported from his phone. Noodles with a stuffed dead mouse staring at him through the glass, Noodles with little monster toys having a party, close-ups, action shots, they just kept coming.
At first, I thought the pictures showed they enjoyed each other’s company, but when Robert’s French had improved to where he could tell me about a woman and a boy eating an apple in a blue car, I realized it was the result of excessive unstructured time.
B
“Give him as much food as will fit in his head. This much.” I had a small amount of turtle food in my hand to show Robert, who was flipping through his mail
“I’ll just call you if there’s a problem,” he said from the couch, clearly not interested.
Last time I left town, my Mom was watching Noodles and called me almost daily with problems:
The water was too dark.
He didn’t like the view.
He liked looking at flowers.
Can he eat grapes?
She fed him grapes and now he’s shitting everywhere.
Robert was on a rare break from work and had big plans about the things he was going to get done. As I boarded the plane, he sent me an email that said Have a Happy Flight, and a picture of Noodles.
The next day, Robert sent me a picture of Noodles called Il mange et nage. We were learning French together with the Rosetta Stone,, and all we knew was to describe people actively eating and swimming, alone or in groups. Robert could say milk and coffee, so he liked to talked about swimming in coffee or milk and eating something non-specific, until he learned bicycle, and then people ate bicycles and swam in coffee. Very advanced dialog.
I started getting worried Noodles would like Robert more than me. Robert gave him a lot of attention and took photos with props and themes and thought Noodles tried to act like he didn’t care about it, but a smile was developing on his little turtle face.
A few months after I found Noodles in my sink, I was worried he didn’t like me. He startled easily and hid when I came home. I called Jackie to tell her I thought he hated me.
“That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t hate you.”
“How do you know?”
“Two reasons. One, you’re very likable. And two, turtles don’t have feelings.”
When I went to pick up Noodles and bring him home, I had these visions of being shunned by a turtle showing an obvious disappointment when I arrived. Or a sad looking Robert as I took the turtle away.
When I found out Robert shot and killed a lizard with an air rifle on Easter, I wasn’t too concerned he would have formed a lasting attachment with my turtle, but I was still nervous about the reunion.
The lights were off when I walked in and when Robert turned them on, I walked up to Noodles tank and he swam towards me. I knelt down and we just stared at each other for a while.
“I missed you,” I said.
He just stared back at me, his face up against the glass.
“Did you like having him?” I asked Robert.
“I don’t want one.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted one. I asked if you had a good time watching him.”
“It was OK.”
“Just OK?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
A couple days later, I was at Robert’s as he plugged his iphone into his computer. When iphoto popped up, picture after picture of Noodles imported from his phone. Noodles with a stuffed dead mouse staring at him through the glass, Noodles with little monster toys having a party, close-ups, action shots, they just kept coming.
At first, I thought the pictures showed they enjoyed each other’s company, but when Robert’s French had improved to where he could tell me about a woman and a boy eating an apple in a blue car, I realized it was the result of excessive unstructured time.
B
Posted by Peanut Butter And Jealous 
