When I was a child, I yearned for a cat or a dog, but my mom was dead set against it. My parents had grown up in New York City, and they did not trust nature. Mention the prospect of camping, and my father recited grisly tales about entire families being massacred by starving bears. Mention furry animals in the house and my mother declared them walking flea farms.  

Still, my mom took pity on me and one day walked into the house carrying a white cardboard container that looked like it might house Chinese egg rolls. Peering inside, I saw a tiny creature destined to become the love of my life—my very first turtle, which I named Flat-top.  

Flat-top and I hit it off immediately. While my parents slept in on Saturday mornings, I liberated him from his bowl and allowed him to roam freely among the hills and valleys created by my bed sheets. I pilfered raw hamburger tidbits from the refrigerator and fed them to him. I was thrilled when he allowed me to stroke his sleek head.  

I loved Flat-top with a fierce, unconditional love, ministering to his every need, keeping his stomach full and his bowl immaculate. Turtles, however, are somewhat inscrutable, and he was no exception. As he perched on his plastic island, staring at me with his beady, mysterious eyes, I felt he was trying to convey a message I could not decipher. Looking back now, I believe he was, right from the start, planning his escape.     

One afternoon I placed his bowl in the shade of a palm tree, so he could enjoy the fresh air. Hours later, I was devastated to discover the bowl was empty. I figured he had either been eaten by a hawk, or he was hiding in the underbrush. To cover my bases, I added his name to the list of the faithful departed while also praying I would see him again someday.  

When I grew up, I didn’t share my parents’ distrust of Mother Nature. In fact, I was delighted when my late husband, Jef, purchased a small boat we named The Sea Moose. And I was overjoyed when we took our maiden voyage around the waters of a small island on the Gulf coast of Florida. However, I have to admit conditioning runs deep, as I discovered when I first climbed aboard the boat, and my parents’ warnings buzzed through my mind.  

“Those little boats are dangerous. You never know when a storm will develop,” I could hear my father saying. “And the boat could spring a leak, just like that, and then where would you be? The waters are filled with sharks,” my mother’s voice added.  

It took me a while, but I managed to squelch my anxious feelings, and before long I actually relished our boating expeditions. Our trips were peaceful until one day there was a commotion portside, and I was immediately seized with fear. A large creature was thrashing about in the water, producing waves that were jostling the boat. In a rush of emotions, I feared my parents had been right about nature after all, and their grim warnings were about to come true.

Thanks to some deft maneuvers on the part of Captain Jef, however, we managed to stay afloat and were delighted to discover that the interloper was a friendly dolphin. As he swam away, I saw a much smaller animal swimming behind him. I managed to glimpse the creature’s face and stare momentarily into its beady, black eyes. I cannot say this with one-hundred percent certainty, but I believe my childhood prayers were answered. You see, I’m pretty sure the turtle trailing the dolphin was none other than my beloved Flat-top.