If I had a nickel for every time someone asked if I was Vivian, I could quit my day job already.  So, who is Vivian anyway? I suppose the story must begin with Stinky.  He was a turtle I met when I began a new job at an art studio several years ago.  When we met, he occupied a ten-gallon, Astroturf-lined aquarium containing a little plastic water dish and a wooden structure to hide beneath.  He stank. Mostly I observed Stinky to sit like a stone in his hideout.  When he wasn’t sitting like a stone, he was being carried around rather carelessly by someone working at the studio. I was not at the time (nor am I now) an expert in reptilian behavior, but it seemed to me that Stinky disliked being carried.  He always remained closed up tight as if for dear life.  The carrying always ended with Stinky peeing on the carrier.  He was then returned to his stinky aquarium. I tried for a time to ignore Stinky. He was not my responsibility, I knew nothing (nor cared to know anything) about reptiles, and I really do try to keep myself in check about taking on needy critters. Nonetheless, even without any knowledge about reptiles it was clear that Stinky was not radiating good turtle health.  His skin had always been peeling and cracking and weird, but I began to suspect it was degenerative. He had sores at the corners of his mouth and I became sickeningly confident that he was no longer eating or pooping. Then, when I was in the art studio with Adam one weekend, I left the two of them alone.

When I came back, Adam – in all of his glorious Zen – was holding Stinky who was holding his gaze.  In that moment we accepted that the tortured old soul in that little turtle body had not given up the fight.   We took him home. Our first three tasks in the rehabilitation of this turtle were clear: we needed to see a vet, we needed to learn everything we could, and we needed to call this blessed little creature something besides “Stinky”. We and the vet were unable to identify the species of turtle because malnutrition and disease had so degraded the skin, but it was clear right away that he was a she.  The vet diagnosed pneumonia, among other things, and sent us home with antibiotics and a pep talk to treat this turtle who was now heartily engaged in a hunger strike. Even after knocking the pneumonia, the turtle wouldn’t eat.  It had been months.  Hoping to keep her hydrated during this fast, we gave her soaks in a cake pan several times every day.

During these soaks we watched her come into her body as if by magic.  For half an hour at a time we were convinced that she would live, but for the remaining twenty two hours we were doubtful. In a moment of inspiration one day, I thought to offer he food while she seemed alive in the water.  Bingo!  She’d waited patiently all these weeks for us to figure out that she needed to eat in the water.  Yahoo! The rest of the tale can be summed up quite simply: we learned to listen and she taught us what she needed. All of the dozens of books we read had great suggestions, but no one had clearer advice to give than she did.  Turns out she’s from somewhere in Southeast Asia and prefers to spend most of her time in warm water about six inches deep.  That dry ten-gallon aquarium had been a special kind of hell to her for years. We are blessed to have gotten to know such a creature so intimately.  In an effort to share all she has taught us we’ve taken on three other turtles in need.  We’ve since been able to release two of them to wildlife areas in their native habitat, and the third to an enclosed sanctuary in California. Oh, our first teacher?  We named her Vivian.