A Problem Solver (On Life Lessons)

Among our first pets was box turtle named Christina. She was a strange creature, prone to hiding in her shell all day, with only my mother calling her named to coax her out.  Christina's lack of activity was something of a disappointment, but we loved her anyway.

One day, not too long after we got her, Christina was out of her shell. Usually any motion toward her would cause her to hide, but this time when my brother moved to pick her up, she did not react. Excited by this development, we took her out back to let her roam amidst the grass in the small yard adjacent to our garage. 

My brother placed her on the ground, waiting to see what this animal would do now that it was set free.

She did not move. 

After a few minutes of prodding with no results, my brother realized that something was wrong. Convinced Christina was sick, we ran back inside crying to our mother. She in turn told us that we would be going to our grandmother's apartment down the street and that our father would be meeting us there. 

"Bring her with you," she said "your father will know what to do."

This calmed us. 

Our father was a problem solver, knowledgeable about things we did not understand. So we went, turtle in hand, hopeful that our father could cure her. 

When he arrived we ran immediately to him, crying during our explanation, begging him to do something. He looked at us, then at the turtle.

"Give it to me," he said, I'll take care if it."

We handed her over and he went into the kitchen closing the door behind him. 

Time passed. The sound of running water came from behind the door. We grew impatient, hopeful that our turtle would be okay. Unable to to wait any longer, we entered the kitchen. Our father stood over the sink, a large knife in one hand, Christina in the other, gutting the turtle. 

We wailed in shock. 

"What are you doing?" my brother yelled.

"It's dead. I'm cleaning out the shell, it's beautiful," he responded. 

"We should bury it..." 

Not unsympathetic, our dad took the knife, made a very quick cut, 

"Bury that," he replied, handing Christina's severed head to my brother. 

We went outside in tears, deciding to bury her at the base of one of the palm trees that lined the walkway to the apartment. Later, our father showed us the empty shell, bragging about how he managed to keep the bottom and the flap intact. We were unable to share in his achievement.

A few days had passed and I was once again at my grandmother's apartment. Asia, the neighbor's golden retriever  was playing outside so I went to join. Seeing me, Asia rushed over excitedly, opened her mouth, and spat out Christina's skull.

Terrified, I ran back crying. Rather than being consoled, I was told I should have dug a deeper grave. I was five years old.