Tortoises

A Miraculous Resurrection

Hamish had laid an egg.

I had no idea that a male tortoise could do such a thing.

But, there is it was, off-white in shade, shaped and sized like a bird’s egg, perhaps a pigeon’s.

Hamish was eyeing his production suspiciously.

His beak was open, as if he was going to say something along the lines of;

"Well, this days’s just got more interesting" or

"I wasn’t expecting that" or even

"Whatever next."

I beg your pardon!

The first thing my Mum said on viewing the egg was, "I suppose we’ll need to change his name now."

That never happened.

We just didn’t have the heart to rename him.

From the very first moment we saw him, his wrinkly little face pressed up against the glass wall of the pet shop cage, which he shared with about a hundred other shelled hopefuls, he had the name Hamish written all over him.

In fact when we got him home that was one of the first things we did, initially in felt tipped pen and later with a brush and white paint.

Changing the name Hamish to Sally or Daphne just seemed wrong and there was no way we could paint Hamishina on his/her shell - it just wouldn’t fit.

"I bet that Timmy had something to do with this," Mum added.

I remember being confused by that statement.

After all, there was no way Timmy could have persuaded Hamish to eat an egg whole and anyway, wasn’t that cannibalism?

Timmy was another tortoise.

His human family had gone on holiday somewhere hotter than Scotland, on an aeroplane, and despite protests from Marty (who was in my primary school class) they were not going to attempt to sneak Timmy through airport security hidden in a pencil case.

And so, Timmy had come to our house and garden for a staycation.

Hamish was slow and steady.

He’d take a few easy paces and then pause, have a little look around, drinking in his surroundings before ambling off for another few steps and then pause and catch his breath. And so it would continue.

I’d assumed that all tortoises were alike. I was wrong.

We had created a run in the garden, around 10 feet by 20, bounded by planks of wood on three sides and the garden wall on the other. There were plants and bugs and rocks and things, plenty to keep your average tortoise busy for the afternoon.

Hamish seemed happy in there, investigating each nook and cranny with great care and slowly progressing around the perimeter like an elderly security guard with an oversized backpack.

At one point a sparrow landed right in front of Hamish.

There was a brief interlude while they sized each other up before Hamish made a sudden retreat into his shell and the bemused sparrow shot skyward with a screech.

Enter Timmy.

He was quite a bit smaller than Hamish and his internal spring was wound up as tight as it could go.

He was placed gently in the run and as soon as he had grass beneath his claws he took off at pace, building up a head of speed before crashing full bore into the perimeter fence, knocking it over and then, without so much as a "Nice knowing you", headed off in the direction of the front garden and the road beyond.

How would we explain to Marty that his now pancaked tortoise had outrun all of us and escaped in the first two minutes of his holiday?

I ran after the fugitive shouting "Stop - Timmy - Stop!" and cornered him near the washing line. I swept him up into my arms.

The whole scenario was not to Timmy’s liking and he proceeded to spray me with, let’s call it, "Tortoise Juice" (rather acidic on the skin).

We rebuilt the run perimeter to twice the height, while sinking the foundations deeper into the soil. Netting was added around the top. We stopped short of the suggestion to build lookout towers and a flood light system.

Timmy was released once more and after several fast laps around the circuit seemed content to use some rocks as a makeshift training ground, no doubt to build up his muscles up for his next dash for freedom.

Years later I still wonder what became of Timmy. He really was trapped in the wrong shell. He had the personality and drive of a manic squirrel.

Perhaps he did eventually escape and joined the trapeze act in a travelling circus …

Brace yourselves - here comes the motorbike

As for Hamish, he didn’t seem phased by Timmy and certainly made no attempt to keep up with him.

I’ve no idea if they communicated to each other in TortoiseTalk but I’d imagine Timmy was a fast talking go getter type and Hamish, though much wiser, probably wouldn’t have got a word in edgeways.

The egg never did hatch and in our house there was increasing discussion about the H word - hibernation.

Hamish had never mentioned wanting to sleep for a season but Blue Peter were adamant that tortoises had to hibernate in the winter and so when it turned colder Hamish was boxed up and put in a warm(ish) cupboard in the house for his long sleep.

Several weeks later, Hamish seemed to still be mid-hibernation.

This went on for many more weeks until eventually my parents began hushed discussions about Hamish’s health and eventually took him, box and all, to the vet.

The vet prodded and listened to Hamish and came out with the confidence inspiring statement,

"I’m not 100 percent sure but there’s no sign of life there, so I think, as much as I can tell, that he, I mean she, is in fact, erm, dead."

I just couldn’t believe it.

In fact, I didn’t believe it.

I was sure that our Hamish was still hibernating.

So, despite protests, Hamish was boxed up and buried in a shallow flower bed in our garden not far from Timmy’s run.

To ease the pain I was promised a puppy and a few weeks later that same puppy was running around the garden and chewing up the furniture in the house.

One afternoon there was a commotion in the garden and when I arrived in the scene Hamish’s box/coffin was in the middle of the grass.

“The dog’s dug up Hamish,” said my Mum.

I picked up the box and carefully opened it.

Hamish had gone.

The egg, however, was still in there.

“Where’s Hamish?” I asked.

No-one answered.

For an awful second I thought the puppy had eaten him but Hamish was far too big to fit in her mouth, let alone her stomach.

My Mum offered up an answer.

“He’s gone to heaven. It’s what happens when something dies.”

She looked up at the sky for a moment before heading off to the kitchen to make a start on tea.

I carefully removed the egg and took it into my bedroom where I kept it in a small box lined with cotton wool for several years.

It never did hatch.

As for Hamish, well, his/her whereabouts remain a mystery to this day.

Yes, he could have been dug up by a creature passing through the garden, a big-cat perhaps, or a very big bird but I do think we would have noticed that and there wasn’t much eating in him anyway.

I’m sticking with the idea that he was still hibernating and that he woke up and ambled off towards the nearby woods.

Tortoises can live for a very long time and I do wonder if Hamish might still be out there all these years later, slowly crunching through the undergrowth and still not very far from the scene of the miraculous resurrection.

Until next time, have a great week, E