While at college, I missed my kitties and yearned for an on-campus pet. I spied an aquarium full of turtles at the dime store. When I tapped to elicit a response, one turtle scrambled aggressively over the others with his little neck outstretched and his mouth agape.
He became the Chosen One and was dubbed “Norman.”
Norman had true grit. The silver dollar-sized feller managed to flee his bowl while I was at class and could be found under my bed amidst the gnome fuzz.
Once, while taking the Trailways bus, I held his bowl on my lap with a screen on top and dozed off. Upon waking, I saw Norman had escaped. I posted an APB. He was found in the back of the bus, filthy but alive.
After my graduation, Norman astounded my folks with his feats of derring-do. But a September escape proved disastrous. While searching underneath the television, Dad accidentally stepped on him.
To give Norman a fitting send-off, Mom fervently read the Episcopal committal service, followed by my heartfelt rendition of “Taps” on the kazoo.
