In my family there is a box turtle who has been here longer than I have. She's a Three-Toed Box Turtle, Terrapene carolina triunguis, for those of you interested in the Latin; and her name is Ginji. Now, ever since I was a little child Ginji has been nothing but a perfect lady. Before I was born she used to have free run of the house, eating the macaroni and cheese that fell from my big brother's high chair, running to greet my mother when she arrived home, and begging for blueberries. Begging is a special skill that she has only demonstrated to me about five times. It consists of Ginji craning her wizened little head up as far as it will go and fixing a family member with her glistening eyes. Slowly, and with much deliberation she then raises one arm up above her head and holds it there for several seconds before returning it to the ground. When she does this, I know that she's fed up waiting for me to get around to feeding her.
As I have said, for most of my life she has always been a mild mannered, sweet old lady that should rarely be subjected to undignified handling. However, several years ago there was an incident, and she hasn't been quite as sweet since. I had let my three pet rats out, a father and his two sons, named Dresden, Castiel, and Jasper. All three of them had adventure and idiocy ingrained in their genes, and after I had released them off they scurried onto furniture, cages, and object piles. I knew that they loved climbing up to look at the python, a young lad by the name of Geralt, but I wasn't worried because Geralt's lid had been piled with The Oxford English Dictionary, and so I went about my business. A few minutes after the rats had been released I heard a crunching sound, and, running to Ginji's cage I saw all three rats racing around in the leaves and dirt that filled her cage. Ginji had actually begun to hiss, and as I watched, she unfolded out of her shell and began to make for the nearest rat with considerable speed. I quickly scooped up the rats and put them back in their cage, and rushed to get Ginji some food to calm her nerves. Ten minutes later, when I came back with fruit, she was still circling her cage as fast as her stubby little legs could manage. I somewhat nervously placed the fruit in her bowl, and sure enough here she came, feet pedaling her furiously towards the movement. Instead of eating the food, as I hoped she would, she instead gripped the bowl in her jaws, and did what can only be described as the turtle equivalent of shaking it violently like a rag doll. After she dropped the bowl I pointed down at her food, hoping she would notice it; instead she came after my finger. I retreated, and it set her off again. Round and round the cage she went, biting into the leaves, her water dish, the dirt, anything that moved. It took her another full day before she calmed down. Even now years later, though all three of my rat boys have passed on, she still chases me if I mess with her cage.
As I have said, for most of my life she has always been a mild mannered, sweet old lady that should rarely be subjected to undignified handling. However, several years ago there was an incident, and she hasn't been quite as sweet since. I had let my three pet rats out, a father and his two sons, named Dresden, Castiel, and Jasper. All three of them had adventure and idiocy ingrained in their genes, and after I had released them off they scurried onto furniture, cages, and object piles. I knew that they loved climbing up to look at the python, a young lad by the name of Geralt, but I wasn't worried because Geralt's lid had been piled with The Oxford English Dictionary, and so I went about my business. A few minutes after the rats had been released I heard a crunching sound, and, running to Ginji's cage I saw all three rats racing around in the leaves and dirt that filled her cage. Ginji had actually begun to hiss, and as I watched, she unfolded out of her shell and began to make for the nearest rat with considerable speed. I quickly scooped up the rats and put them back in their cage, and rushed to get Ginji some food to calm her nerves. Ten minutes later, when I came back with fruit, she was still circling her cage as fast as her stubby little legs could manage. I somewhat nervously placed the fruit in her bowl, and sure enough here she came, feet pedaling her furiously towards the movement. Instead of eating the food, as I hoped she would, she instead gripped the bowl in her jaws, and did what can only be described as the turtle equivalent of shaking it violently like a rag doll. After she dropped the bowl I pointed down at her food, hoping she would notice it; instead she came after my finger. I retreated, and it set her off again. Round and round the cage she went, biting into the leaves, her water dish, the dirt, anything that moved. It took her another full day before she calmed down. Even now years later, though all three of my rat boys have passed on, she still chases me if I mess with her cage.
