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The Yale Alumni Magazine is owned and operated by Yale Alumni Publications, Inc., a nonprofit corporation independent of Yale University. The content of the magazine and its website is the responsibility of the editors and does not necessarily reflect the views of Yale or its officers. |
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There was a time when my family was really lacking in the Pet Department—which is odd, considering the menagerie that eventually accrued. A llama, two alpacas, the pygmy goat upon whom my father was surprised to stumble when he attempted, newspaper tucked under one arm, to enter the downstairs bathroom … then the miniature horse, followed by two parakeets, two rabbits, two dogs, more horses, and finally, eight chickens and a poor hen-pecked rooster named Wendell. When I was little—a child who asked every day, to my parents’ bemusement, when am I going to get a pony—such an array was beyond comprehension. We had nothing more than a few “decorative” goldfish in a concrete pond. Every year, my father would tie garbage bags over his suit-pants and Allen-Edmond oxfords to wrangle the fish into their winter accommodations in our garage. It was a sight so ridiculous that I felt sure my family just wasn’t cut out to indulge my zoological desires. Then came the turtles from San Francisco. “Mom!” I’d squealed when I first saw them, stacked in cages outside a Chinese live food market. I pictured Dad chasing one or two around our suburban Cleveland yard. My father is a tall-ish thin-ish man, with hair that was more pepper then and is more salt now. He is of the sort prone to having business meetings with clients in far-away places. My mother is a shorter rounder woman, with a wit and charm that entices all sorts of strangers, mostly men, into conversation. She is of the sort prone to getting her family taken along on those business trips, thanks, very much, to the clients. While Dad would meet with said clients, my mother, sister and I would go wandering around said far-away place, and, more often than not, attract said strange man. In the case of San Francisco, he was Andrew the Biologist, and he took us all over the Aquarium of the Bay, the harbor, and finally to China Town, where I made my discovery. “Mom! Mom Rachel Mom! Mom Rachel, um, Andrew—there’s turtles in cages! And there’s a sign that says that they’re supposed to be—”my moral compass had aligned at an early age; I lowered my voice dramatically“—for soup.” I paused. No reaction. “And,” I added perkily, well-steeped in family priorities, “They’re only $4.95.” Andrew informed us that the turtles were Red Eared Sliders, and besides being a bargain, they were easy to take care of—just cut-up fruit and a little fish and plenty of fresh water. I looked up at my mom with big, brown, proto-vegetarian eyes. My sister Rachel probably said something diplomatic and subtly convincing. We left the market clutching one (female, Andrew informed us) Slider. We named her Andrea in his honor. Andrea spent each night in the bathtub of our hotel, and each day, while we were out, hiding from housekeeeeeping in an armoire drawer with a couple of damp towels for moisture. It is to my father’s credit that he did not scream upon first finding Andrea in his morning shower. Nor did he scream when Andrew—a turtle friend, not the eponymous human biologist who suggested the purchase of a mate—joined her a few days later. Dad did, however, put up a bit of a fuss when he was the one sent down to the hotel kitchen to ask for some raw halibut. Between the lush accommodations and a steady diet of pilfered fish, Andrew and Andrea seemed quite happy. No one really thought about the specifics of their resettlement in Cleveland, and it wasn’t until our last night, when I heard my mom hanging up from Continental with a slam – Fifty Bucks? Each!—that I knew something mighty was afoot. Early the next morning, Operation Turtle commenced. From the hotel, we gathered our supplies:
En route to the airport, we stopped at Wal-Mart and bought two large Tupperware containers and a carry-on duffle. With me in the backseat jamming pen-holes into the Tupperware lids, we careened toward San Francisco International, devising our plan. My dad tried not to listen.
Everything went alright until somewhere around the time the captain turned off the Fasten Seatbelt light. Rachel and I had been peaking into the duffle-bag at our feet, making sure Andrew and Andrea were comfortable, and not dying from, you know, air expanding inside their shells or anything like that. We peeled up the perforated Tupperware tops, alternating: “Hello Andrew.” “Hello-hello, Andrea.” “Hello Andrew, cutie.” “Hello-Hell—oh. No.” “What?” “Andrea.” “Dead?” “Gone.” And so she was. Not just a little gone. Completely gone. Gone from the Tupperware, from the bag, from the area around our seat. I un-clicked my seatbelt and got on my hands and knees to look. Rachel started patrolling the aisle, up and down. Ding. The captain has turned on the Fasten Seatbelt light. I was sweating. A stewardess approached Rachel, no doubt entreating her to return to her seat. As she stammered, I crawled, peering between white Reeboks for a flash of leathery green-brown. Rachel must have alerted my parents sitting behind us, because they were scuffling in their seats, whispering frantically to the people in back of them. I crawled faster up the aisle, my eyes darting left and right, left and right. Suddenly, they found themselves staring directly into a stern-looking pair of gray panty-hosed knees. “Miss?” Black pumps. Blue polyester. Uh-oh. “I just … lost something.” “The captain has turned on the Fasten Seatbelt light.” She sounded just like recording. Maybe she was the recording. “I know—I just need to find—my—” “What?” “My” Pantyhose. Pumps. Polyester. “My … ” Then, “Excuse me.” The voice of a man—bless his heart—muffled forth from several rows back. On my knees, I could see a crouched figure with his hand over a hat that either held ten gallons … or a turtle. I imagined my heart falling out of my chest like a yellow oxygen mask. “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.” Now the incredible thing is that
those hands, and that ridiculous hat, belonged to my father. Despite his role as perpetual critic
and nay-sayer of the Appelbaum women’s antics, the tale of his heroic
intervention is often recounted at business dinners. Needless to say, the story of Operation Turtle was a big hit
with the clients—just like the stories of the alpacas, the llama, and the
Bathroom Goat that followed. Indeed,
if I had to guess, I’d say the primary reason we continued to amass animals had
less to do with their presence in our home, and more to do with their presence
around a table full of suits. Which, of course, suited me just fine. |
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