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Fiction Short Story

by Grace M. Murray

Naked

Kojak barked wildly at something under the hydrangea. Front legs splayed apart so that his chest nearly hit the ground, body pulsing forward with each yelp, then suddenly jerking back, to dodge any unexpected swipes from his invisible foe. His upper lip curled, revealing yellowed incisors.

I knelt down, seeking a glimpse of the source of the commotion. Kojak blasted another series of deep growling barks. My hands flew up to protect my ears, and I slammed down hard on my ass, grateful I came with my own cushion. "Shit, Kojak! What the hell's under there, boy?"

Kojak's senses focused on the intruder under the bush. Rising, I wiped bits of dirt and grass from my hands and sought a different route. I picked up a stick from the old pecan tree, just long enough to probe the shadows of the hydrangea.

My ears rang from Kojak's incessant barking. I felt around in the general vicinity that consumed his interest, playing a canine game of blind man's bluff. "What is it, Kojak? Come on, boy, I don't see anything."

The stick scuffed up dirt, thudding softly in the grass around the shrub. Then a dull tap. I could make out the shape of a large flat stone.

"Kojak, you nut! You're barking at a rock!" As I threw the stick aside, the rock moved through the thick grass. Now I was down on all fours; then I saw it—the spongy head of the turtle. The grey and yellow legs pushed forward and dragged the shell another inch.

"Hush, Kojak, hush."  I grabbed his collar and steered him into the house. He pulled against me, both of us determined to win this round.

Luckily, dogs have short memories, and Kojak's was generally shorter than most.  A smear of cream cheese on the front of the washer, and he greedily licked off every trace while I rummaged for lettuce in the vegetable drawer. The few remaining leaves resembled seaweed left behind on the shore at low tide. I carried the green slop out to tempt the immigrant who had finally made it about halfway around the hydrangea.

As a child, I fed many a turtle pale green leaves of lettuce I'd begged from my mother. When I offered the leaves and bits of tomato, none even so much as sniffed at my hospitality. Rocky (naming him was my first mistake) took immediate interest in the sticky mulch of green I laid out for him. His head poked out from the shell, maybe a full two inches, and he buried his beak in the pulpy mess.  He seemed to be chewing—if turtles chew.

Resisting the urge to lift him up and see if Rocky was a he, I ran my fingers along the irregular trapezoids of his shell, feeling smooth, then rough where the plates joined.  I wanted to rub his head, but old fears arose of the turtle disease Mom warned us about whenever we begged for one of the baby turtles climbing over pink and blue gravel in their flat tanks at Rose’s Five and Dime.

Inside, Kojak was scratching at the door.  He hadn't forgotten that I was out here. I wondered if he had seen me consorting with the enemy. I rinsed my hands under the outdoor faucet, the cold water stinging my fingers as I tried to wash away the terrapin's scent.

When the kids came rushing in from school, I stupidly told them of the secret in the back yard. As they begged to keep him and swore they would feed him, knowing they never would, I recounted the stories of turtle disease. We do become our mothers.

Their father said, "Tomorrow evening we'll go down to the millpond and let him loose. He needs to be with his own kind."

My chest tightened and I forgot about turtle diseases. Visions of Rocky sunning himself on pink and blue gravel raced through my head.

Before we went up to bed he said, "It is the right thing, you know."  I shrugged and let Kojak out for a late night pee.

Twenty minutes later, it occurred to me that Kojak had not come back. I opened the door and called and he bounded in with a fragment of shell in his mouth. I wanted to scream. I shook off the impulse to pop him on the snout and retrieve the piece for safekeeping.

A few feet away lay Rocky's oozing carcass. Kojak must have lifted him up in his mouth and thrown him back down until finally he exposed the soft flesh. I had never seen a turtle naked. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest and went inside, brushing past my husband who stood staring silently out the door.


About the Author
Grace M. Murray lives in the Tidewater area of Virginia with her husband and fellow writer, Paul W. Murray, her daughter, Beth, two dogs: Ben and Adele, and one cat: Foxy. In addition to her family, she cares for eight law professors, teaches ethics and religion, and serves as a volunteer chaplain. A less traumatic incident between a slider from the Great Dismal Swamp and her beagle, Ben, inspired this story.