A Shot in the Arm
“You’ll have to give her shots for 10 days,” the reptile vet informs me, holding Myrtle firmly.
Shots? I have to give my turtle shots?
When I was a toddler, the doctor made the unfortunate choice to tell me I was getting a shot. When he turned his back, I jumped off the table and ran screaming down the hall. That’s pretty much how I feel right now.
“Shots?” I repeat. The vet sighs and tries not to roll his eyes.
“Antibiotics. One a day for 10 days.”
Myrtle is at least 35 years old and hasn’t eaten in two weeks. She appeared in my house 30 years ago because the Shiner family no longer wanted her and my youngest son pleaded to take her. “She’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Shiner assured me. Liar, liar, pants on fire, I think.
My son, of course, grew up, trotted off to college and never looked back. Myrtle and I have grown old together—like the Golden Girls, except one of us is a turtle.
“I’ll show you how,” the vet says firmly. He picks up a syringe, fills it with a gold-colored liquid and stabs poor Myrtle in her armpit. She and I both flinch. “See? No problem. Ten days,” the vet hands Myrtle to me along with a package of syringes and a tube of the liquid. Before I can ask any questions, he sweeps out the door.
I stand there with a wounded Myrtle and a head full of bad words for Mrs. Shiner and my youngest son.
The next day, I pick up Myrtle and immediately burst into tears when I contemplate hurting her. Normally, she’s relaxed when I reach for her because I’m just moving her to clean her aquarium. I don’t know if it is my tears or her reptilian instincts, but she suddenly pulls everything into her shell, clamping down tighter than a deep-diving submarine.
Son of a biscuit! I’m suddenly in a cage fighting match with a &*%$#@ turtle. I cry. I cuss. I pry one leg free only to have it shoot back to safety when I pick up the syringe. I accidentally push the plunger and gold liquid squirts on my left cheek.
I simultaneously apologize to and cuss at Myrtle as I refill the syringe. I am covered in water, tears and probably Myrtle urine so now my hands are slippery as well as shaky. Somehow, I stick the needle in what is most likely her armpit and it is over. For now.
I wish I could tell you the remaining eight days are easier, but Myrtle fights as valiantly as Hector at Troy. I, however, turn out to be Achilles.
After 10 days of shots, three more visits to the vet, a vitamin B12 shot and one tube feeding, one morning Myrtle scarfs down a small piece of raw salmon.
I cry with relief and tell her she’s a miracle turtle. The Golden Girls are together again!!