The Death of Something Small

~from Jill

My son’s turtle died today. I know it isn’t a big thing in the scheme of life, but it was a very big deal to him.

It was a 2-inch aquatic turtle he had named Squirty. The boys each got one from a kiosk at the Mall, along with a kidney-shaped tank full of purple and blue rocks, and a fake palm tree. We took pictures of the turtles, the boys named them, and laid on their stomachs to watch them walk across the floor, (you’d be surprised at how fast these things move). They needed few reminders to keep them on towels, and took frequent trips to the bathroom to wash their hands in amber colored antibacterial soap.

In the past two months (yes, I cringe to admit it has only been that long since we’ve had them), we washed more towels, and used more hand soap than ever before. The boys gently “cleaned” the turtles’ shell tops with cotton, and my youngest performed a mock wedding, presided over by a neighborhood friend. Then today, my husband discovered one of them had died, and it was Squirty (“They can tell them apart?” he asked me.)

Accusations flew.

My husband: “Turtles are complicated, I knew something like this would happen!”

Riley, with head bowed admitted he once dropped the turtle (a distance of about three inches).

As my husband cleaned the tank thoroughly for the remaining turtle (whose viability seems doubtful at best), he added some water from a jug in our cupboard, I asked him why he didn’t just grab a bottle from the garage.

“Because,” he said incredulously, “that water isn’t distilled. These turtles can only be kept in distilled water, remember?” . . it was only a few milliseconds before we both knew who may have been responsible for the ill health of the turtles.

Riley took a shovel and dug a hole on the side of our house. Our batty older neighbor came out in a nightgown and handed me a bag of bagels as I was inscribing a stone with the turtle’s name and date. We placed the tiny shell in the hole, and covered it with rocks and dirt.

As I went in the kitchen to put the bagels away, I saw Riley through the window, standing outside, crying. His older brother squatted beside him, touching one of the rocks.

Neither of them wanted to be taken to McDonalds, or to buy a new pet. Brandon coaxed Riley into playing with eraser figures, and a few minutes into their play I heard him say, “Can you please stop talking about dying!”

We may have found the reason why the turtle died or not; really, it doesn’t matter. My son had a loss. Not just the loss of this one turtle, but of the many things that came before. Moving from one state to another. Saying goodbye to family and friends. Leaving a long-haired cat behind who wouldn’t have survived well in the tropical heat. Transferring schools midyear, having new teachers, making new friends . .

One tiny snowball of a loss, with a mountain of ice behind it.

My mother told me this is good inoculation for the future loss of pets. “It’s what happens eventually to all pets,” she said, “they die.” I know that. The boys know that. We will continue to have pets, and who knows . . maybe the sun will continue to rise, and that ice will melt in its own time.