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Do Turtles Go to Heaven?
(even Elmer?)

John F. Fisher, MD

    I am fully aware that there are turtles who snap when provoked or trying to protect their young, but the image most of us carry with us about a turtle is that of a humble, benevolent, and gentle creature who seemingly immovably sits in the sun with a group of friends on a bank or a rock near a quiet pond. Not infrequently, when out on the back roads in the summer, we encounter a box turtle struggling to cross to the other side, presumably to get to another pond or perhaps to a girlfriend. I hope she is patient, because this process may take hours.
    Whenever I see this reptile-crossing-drama unfolding on a country road, my pangs of guilt always recrudesce and I am back in medical school. Probably on a Friday or Saturday night after a grueling week of exams, I had just returned my date for the evening back to the nurses’ dorm around midnight. I recall being rather cavalier about the number of beers I had consumed, my driving, and the car I had borrowed from my good friend, Gil, for the evening when I suddenly noticed Elmer. This tortoise was about the size of my fist and he was probably heading home from his date for the evening across the road. I had always had a boyhood fascination with these hapless creatures who could never escape being handled by me and my friends for amusement whenever we encountered one. That and my lowered inhibitions from the juice of the barley this evening prevailed on me to pull over to the curb. He was old enough to have had this sort of thing happen before and was likely thinking, “Oh no! Not another car! Don’t pull over!”
    Elmer obviously wasn’t happy to see me and closed his hatch when I approached. Indeed, I never did get a look at his face, but I planned to after I got him back to the apartment I shared with my classmate, Pat. Elmer wasn’t heavy as I thwarted his trek across the asphalt and altered his life forever. His closed shell fit perfectly in my hand and we got back in the car together. I hesitated to place him on the passenger seat for fear of any untoward emissions which might stain something. However, the empty glove compartment provided a perfect alcove with a door and in went Elmer without any protest for a thrilling ride, faster than any hare he’d ever encountered. I doubt if he even poked his head out until we came to a stop back at Gil’s apartment. Unfortunately for Elmer, I didn’t think about him on my cab ride home after returning the car. In fact, my memory of this drive-by, turtle-napping had vanished by next morning.
    Three weeks later, I got a call from Gil. He had spent the previous 30 minutes trying to discover the origin of the stench emanating from his car in the ninety-degree, summer afternoon of Richmond, Virginia. He had scoured the vehicle both under the seats, in the trunk, and even under the hood for the cause of the fetid odor which pervaded everything and made driving anywhere impossible. This spoor shouldn’t have come from the glove box, but it did! There was no ‘Rest in Peace’ marker for that grave— the rotten carrion inside of a tortoise shell was all that was left of Elmer.
    When Gil inquired if I knew anything about this, my memory along with my guilty conscience rose up volcanically. I was immediately painfully contrite, and Gil, good-natured chum that he is, forgave me. I didn’t inquire as to where and how he disposed of Elmer’s carcass, but I imagine he was gloved up and held Elmer at arm’s length for much of the process. I can still picture what the cardboard walls and floor of his erstwhile prison must have looked like with random, desperate scratch and gouge marks everywhere and the occasional stain or dried turtle chip from an anguished effluent.
    From the perspective of the SPCA, my villainy deserves a punishment in kind such as being stuffed in a gym locker in an abandoned high school near Death Valley or rocketed to Mars in a one-way space capsule to fend for myself. A six-figure financial donation to their cause could not begin to assuage my sin.
    Elmer’s girlfriend is likely still alive after all these years and patiently awaiting his return which has taken a little longer than the few days she customarily expects in these sorts of courtships, but perhaps she has moved on.
    Elmer certainly didn’t deserve the martyrdom I gave him and, if turtles are allowed in heaven, he went straight there. I, however, should spend at least three weeks in a locked cell in Purgatory inside the shell of a 500-pound Galapagos tortoise before my release.

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