Escape Artist Tortoises

    My grandfather was usually a quiet man.  When he did talk to me it was in a careful, thoughtful way that let me know that I should listen well, because timeless wisdom was about to be passed down.  He taught me things, like how to put honey on my cereal because it sticks to the flakes, while sugar would just settle at the bottom of the bowl.  I never heard him yell except when he thought one of us kids was about to get hurt.  He worked every day of his life and never complained.  By the time I was born he had settled down to raise cattle, grazing them on large pastures that he owned.  I always thought it was kind of funny that he raised beef, but didn’t ever eat it.  All I ever saw him eat was cereal and cookies. 
    When I was a child, summer meant several weeks on my grandparent’s farm in Oklahoma  My brother and I always looked forward to our time spent tagging along with grandpa while he tended his cattle, riding tractors and making hay, or just laying around the house while grandma spoiled us with ice cream.  Grandpa worked hard all day, but made us feel like we were just hanging out and having a good time with him, rather than getting in his way.  Grandma  spent hours telling us bedtime stories in her slow, easygoing style.  We never wanted to leave when it was time to go home. 
    While he tended the cattle, he would show us how he branded them by burning off the hair, but never burning the skin, to minimize their pain.  He showed me where coyotes burrowed in the fields, but he didn’t shoot them because they weren’t bothering his livestock.  I was only 8 or 9 years old, but I loved learning about wildlife and domestic animals from him.
    “They like to eat watermelon, these critters,” my grandpa said as he handed me a small chunk of the fruit. 
    “Really?  How do they bite into it?  He’s so small,” I replied. 
    “Oh, they can bite it all right.”
    I placed the watermelon chunk into the 5 gallon bucket containing the new pet my grandpa had found in the yard.  It was a tiny box turtle, common in Oklahoma. 
    They like lettuce too,” grandpa said as he cut a piece out of a head of iceberg.
    “Okay, if you say so,” I chuckled, skeptical.
    “Now let’s put his bucket out on the porch,” he said, “They like to be outside.  Remember this is a wild critter.”
    “Will he bite me?”  I asked, thinking of all the warnings I had heard about snapping turtles. 
    “Well, he ain’t likely to bite ya,”  said grandpa, thoughtfully,  “But he ain’t used to being caged up like this.”
    I bounced around him as he took the bucket to the front porch and placed it in the shade.  Grandpa left to continue his workday.  He spent his days slowly driving along country roads from one parcel of land to another.  He had cattle to feed, fences to check and possibly more turtles to rescue.  Box turtles are named for the hinge they have on their lower shell, allowing them to close up tightly, boxing themselves in.  they sometimes wander into the road, get scared and retreat into their shells.  They would remain where they were, cars zooming past until they got crushed.  Grandpa would always pull over, dash out into traffic and move the poor turtle to safety when he spotted one on the brink of disaster. 
    I spent the next few hours checking on my turtle constantly..  He had yellow specks on his skin and shell.  The turtle seemed lethargic and depressed, perking up only when I allowed him to walk around in the grassy front yard.  He couldn‘t move too fast though, and I put him back in his 5 gallon prison after a few minutes in the yard.  The watermelon and lettuce remained untouched. 
    “He won’t eat,,”  I told grandpa when he came home for lunch. 
    “Leave him be a little bit and he’ll eat that melon right up, you’ll see.” 
    I ignored the bucket for a while to see if that would allow the turtle to eat his lunch.  Grandpa left through the back door, got in his truck and drove away.  I waited as long as I could stand it, then checked on my turtle again.  His entire chuck of watermelon and the lettuce was gone! 
    “Grandpa, he ate all of his food!” I exclaimed when he came home that evening. 
    “See, I told you he’d eat it, he smiled, his blue eyes twinkling behind his heavy black glasses..
    “Can I have more food for him?”
    “Let’s wait until morning, and feed him then,” he advised.
    In the morning, I went out to the porch to wake up my turtle and feed him.  Spot, as I’d decided to name him, was gone!  I searched the porch and the front yard but there was no sign of him.  I couldn’t fathom how a 3 inch turtle could escape a 5 gallon bucket.  His clawed feet could not have gripped the walls of the bucket and there’s no way he hopped out.  I told my grandpa about the turtle getting away in the night.
    “They are wily critters, those turtles.  I told you he wouldn’t like being cooped up,”  he chuckled.. 
    “I miss him,” I said, pouting a little.
    Later that day, grandpa brought me a different turtle.  This one had red stripes on his neck.  I put him in Spot’s vacated bucket right away.  I named him Stripe and gave him a piece of watermelon.  The next morning, he was not there.  Another turtle had escaped.
    I went through several turtles.  Sometimes I would have more than one turtle in the bucket.  One would get away, then the other.  Occasionally they ate their food first, although I never saw any bites taken out of the melon chunk.  It would just disappear, or not.  Like the turtles themselves.  I began to get really curious about how they were getting out of the bucket.
    I determined to find out what was happening once and for all.  I decided to watch the turtle all day.  I’d stay far enough back to give it the freedom to escape so that I could catch it in the act and find out how it was getting out. 
    My grandparents were making hay that day and took us with them.  They’d hired someone to mow the hay.  After it laid out to dry for a few days, grandma drove a tractor with a rake attached, raking it into rows.  Grandpa followed with the baler that swallowed the rows of hay and spit out big rectangles of hay bales.  It usually took a couple of afternoons to finish, and we had ridden on grandma or grandpa’s lap all the previous day.  This time we were allowed to stay by the truck and play while they worked. 
    I brought my turtle in his bucket and placed it on the tailgate of the truck in the sun.  I wanted to make sure I could see it from where I was playing, so that if the turtle tried to get out I’d know.  An hour passed and the turtle was still there.  Grandma stopped by for some water, taking some for grandpa too. 
    My brother and I explored the area, looking for snakes in the tall prairie grass.  I tried to stay within a short distance of the truck so I could catch the turtle as he slid over the edge of his bucket and got away.  The sun was hot and the humidity made me feel like water was condensing on my skin.  We had to retreat to the shade, ducking among the trees on the edge of the pasture.  I could see my grandpa on his tractor, sometimes far away on the other side of the field, sometimes nearer.  The afternoon turned to dusk and they stopped working.  I ran to greet grandpa as he walked toward the truck.
    “I kept my turtle all day this time!”  I shouted triumphantly.
    “Really now?”  Grandpa chuckled, “That’s something.”
    “Yup, I watched him real good.”
    I ran to the truck to get the bucket and show him.  To my surprise, the bucket was no longer on the tailgate of the truck, it was sitting upright in the shade next to it.  But the turtle was gone.