Of course, only avid readers of The Enquirer would believe that my Russian tortoise shucked or unzipped his shell, scampered around the house without it like a lizard-man escaped from P.T. Barnum's circus, then settled himself back into his shell.
Other than the famous batboy, one of my favorite Enquirer headline is: "Ancient Skull Talks and Sings to Scientists."
"Man's Tortoise Leads Double, Shell-free, Life," would rank right up there, I think.
I posted the previous tortoise fiction to raise the point that it is very difficult for us to get away from the very inaccurate and cartoonie idea that a tortoise lives inside his or her shell, like, say, a dog lives in a doghouse.
To my knowledge, only a hermit crab lives outside of its shell of choice, and that ever so briefly until it finds a suitable (tight fitting) abandoned seashell in which to seal itself from predators and to retain moisture. One of the more famous hermit crabs was "Crusty," in the 1964 Don Knotts film, "The Incredible Mr. Limpet." (Even though listed as a family comedy, parts of it scared the 7-year-old me at the drive-in.)
Henry Limpet wants to be a fish ... "I wish, I wish I were a fish," and it happens. Live-action Don Knotts becomes a cartoon fish and even garners a girlfriend, "Ladyfish."
Crusty is a friend and helper.
Great line from the movie -- Limpet: "Do you suppose that we could just be more or less friends?" Ladyfish: "Friends? But wouldn't that be more or less nothing, Limpet?"
Anyway, tortoises (and snails) do not inhabit or borrow or wear their shells, any more than you could say that a person lives inside their rib cage, or inside their skin.
The bone structure of the tortoise is unique and amazing, as the backbone and ribs of the animal are grown into or fused with the shell. The tortoise will have a line of "scutes," (from the Latin "scutum" or shield) which are the visible segments or plates of the shell, along the backbone. These are called, oddly enough, vertebrals. Along either side of the vertebrals is a row of "pleurals." The outermost scutes that skirt the tortoise are called marginals.
That's it. Just the three rows. Not endless numberless scute upon scute. Even the giant tortoises have the three rows, they are just bigger.
If a tortoise is out of its shell, it is not in the shower. It is dead.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Two months together, and only one unusual occurence
Yesterday marked the end of the second month that Ilarion has existed under my care. Given the many sources of inaccurate, incomplete and mythological information on Russian tortoise husbandry, this two months is something of a miracle for both of us.
The only thing exceptional so far was the night before last, when I caught Ilarion cruising around without his shell.
Here was his strange little brown, yellow and green body – looking like no other creature I have ever seen, scampering around his estate, with his shell left parked on the far side of his little bridge (handcrafted, I might add).
We are apparently to look for oddities such as this once in a blue moon, one of which we are actually having this month. Check your calendar: Full moons on the second AND the thirty-first. (Second one in a month is the blue moon. Very rare. Only happens once every blue moon.)
So, anyway, here is Ilarion, sans shell, climbing more like a monkey all over his estate. His yellowed inside-shell skin looked like uncooked chicken skin. His forelegs looked like he was wearing a woven shirt from the days of the Renaissance. Big sleeves, you know.
With what wondering eyes did I watch as my tortoise – or most of him – reached one of his four-toed feet through the covering, pushed it open, hoisted himself onto the roof, smiled at me and began to dance while singing, “Hello my honey …”
Believe it or not … (more anon).
The only thing exceptional so far was the night before last, when I caught Ilarion cruising around without his shell.
Here was his strange little brown, yellow and green body – looking like no other creature I have ever seen, scampering around his estate, with his shell left parked on the far side of his little bridge (handcrafted, I might add).
We are apparently to look for oddities such as this once in a blue moon, one of which we are actually having this month. Check your calendar: Full moons on the second AND the thirty-first. (Second one in a month is the blue moon. Very rare. Only happens once every blue moon.)
So, anyway, here is Ilarion, sans shell, climbing more like a monkey all over his estate. His yellowed inside-shell skin looked like uncooked chicken skin. His forelegs looked like he was wearing a woven shirt from the days of the Renaissance. Big sleeves, you know.
With what wondering eyes did I watch as my tortoise – or most of him – reached one of his four-toed feet through the covering, pushed it open, hoisted himself onto the roof, smiled at me and began to dance while singing, “Hello my honey …”
Believe it or not … (more anon).
Monday, November 23, 2009
My Tortoise the Food Processor
Two magic words will keep all of my 11-year-old daughter’s friends from wanting to hold or handle my tortoise: He poops.
The ick factor is very significant among this demographic.
Possibly for the same reason that we don’t keep our toilets in our living rooms, Ilarion seems to prefer to poop in other places besides his enclosure.
It is advised that Russian tortoises be soaked in a warm, belly-deep bath for about 20 minutes twice a week. Ilarion uses this opportunity to read the comics, review the information on the back of a deodorant can, and poop.
Also, whenever I let him sit on my stomach with my hands folded over him for a hide box, he will occasionally leave a log on my shirt. We’re talking a pencil-thin dropping here.
Tortoises have some unique anatomical features, not the least of which is their digestive system.
Russian tortoises, as well as other species that naturally dwell in arid terrain, have a couple of adaptations in their innards.
They are able to absorb every last hint of moisture from the food they eat. Ilarion doesn’t really chew his food. He pretty much bites and swallows, so already you can see that the stomach is an effective food processor.
The stomach is followed by a “hindgut” system that further absorbs moisture from the food that has already gone one round in the primary stomach.
Although I keep a saucer of water in Ilarion’s enclosure, I have never seen him take a drink from it, nor try to get into it. When I give him his warm soakings, I have yet to see him sip from this water either.
I suspect he is sneaking out at night and going to water keggers on the outskirts of town.
The other anomaly regarding digestive anatomy is the excretion of urine. Russians do not leave a puddle. Obviously, you don’t want all of your body’s water being peed out onto the desert sand or the arid steppe. Didn’t you read “Dune”? Uric acid is released instead as a whitish glop, much like bird poop, or, if you prefer, toothpaste.
Thus, his Number 1 is more like a 1.5.
As waste product systems go, this one works nicely for the tortoise and the pet owner as well. Not much muss; not much fuss.
The ick factor is very significant among this demographic.
Possibly for the same reason that we don’t keep our toilets in our living rooms, Ilarion seems to prefer to poop in other places besides his enclosure.
It is advised that Russian tortoises be soaked in a warm, belly-deep bath for about 20 minutes twice a week. Ilarion uses this opportunity to read the comics, review the information on the back of a deodorant can, and poop.
Also, whenever I let him sit on my stomach with my hands folded over him for a hide box, he will occasionally leave a log on my shirt. We’re talking a pencil-thin dropping here.
Tortoises have some unique anatomical features, not the least of which is their digestive system.
Russian tortoises, as well as other species that naturally dwell in arid terrain, have a couple of adaptations in their innards.
They are able to absorb every last hint of moisture from the food they eat. Ilarion doesn’t really chew his food. He pretty much bites and swallows, so already you can see that the stomach is an effective food processor.
The stomach is followed by a “hindgut” system that further absorbs moisture from the food that has already gone one round in the primary stomach.
Although I keep a saucer of water in Ilarion’s enclosure, I have never seen him take a drink from it, nor try to get into it. When I give him his warm soakings, I have yet to see him sip from this water either.
I suspect he is sneaking out at night and going to water keggers on the outskirts of town.
The other anomaly regarding digestive anatomy is the excretion of urine. Russians do not leave a puddle. Obviously, you don’t want all of your body’s water being peed out onto the desert sand or the arid steppe. Didn’t you read “Dune”? Uric acid is released instead as a whitish glop, much like bird poop, or, if you prefer, toothpaste.
Thus, his Number 1 is more like a 1.5.
As waste product systems go, this one works nicely for the tortoise and the pet owner as well. Not much muss; not much fuss.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
'There is an inherent risk in eating.'
As the end-of-the year eating season starts to build steam, I thought I would pass along some public service-type ideas with regard to salmonella.
First of all, Sal Monella is not a movie star from the 1960s. That was Sal Mineo, who starred in “Exodus,” and went on to be killed in a robbery on Feb. 12, 1976. I think he was one of the eight billion stars in “The Longest Day,” as well. One should not confuse one’s Sals.
Also, let us clear up any connection between salmonella and salmon, except to say that the research assistant who discovered this strain of bacteria was named Daniel E. Salmon. How cool is that – to have your surname transmogrified into a popular(?) disease. The resultant condition is called salmonellosis. Ironically, Daniel’s wife was named Ella. She soon left Daniel for a cooler, less geeky research assistant, Lance Diabetes.
It is the second most frequent cause of food-borne intestinal poisoning; causing diarrhea. The CDC believes the incidents are greatly under-reported (like only 3 percent of the cases) because people don’t like to talk that much about having the squirts. This talk is most often kept in the family.
The first most frequent cause of intestinal poising is eating. A spokesman for peanut butter is quoted as saying, “You can’t say any food is completely safe. There’s an inherent risk in eating.”
Gotta love those defensive spokesmen for foods that make news for bearing bad bacteria.
Apparently, all reptiles should have a warning sticker on them from the federal government that indicates these animals can carry and shed salmonella bacteria. Tortoises are included in this possibility, and there is no way known to eradicate the bacteria from the animal.
So, like with the swine flu, this means a lot of hand-washing is in order, as well as the general avoidance of allowing one’s tortoise to romp on the kitchen counter among the raw chicken pieces scattered there, left at room temperature for the better part of a day with milk residue and raw egg whites sloshed on the wooden cutting board.
Speaking of chicken, half of the chicken sold in America carries salmonella. This comes as no surprise since chickens thrive and laugh more when they are living in their own poop. Cooking is what takes care of the salmonella we voluntarily carry into our homes on a weekly basis.
Other foods that salmonella bacteria enjoy include poultry in general, pork, alfalfa sprouts and an estimated one in 20,000 eggs.
Salmonella has to make its way into the intestines through the mouth, so touching a tortoise and licking your fingers is not advised. Once you have touched a tortoise, your unwashed hands or clothes can carry the bacteria to someone else, so it is also advised to avoid licking the fingers of someone else who has just touched a tortoise – even if it is your tortoise and the animal seems too cute to cause the runs.
First of all, Sal Monella is not a movie star from the 1960s. That was Sal Mineo, who starred in “Exodus,” and went on to be killed in a robbery on Feb. 12, 1976. I think he was one of the eight billion stars in “The Longest Day,” as well. One should not confuse one’s Sals.
Also, let us clear up any connection between salmonella and salmon, except to say that the research assistant who discovered this strain of bacteria was named Daniel E. Salmon. How cool is that – to have your surname transmogrified into a popular(?) disease. The resultant condition is called salmonellosis. Ironically, Daniel’s wife was named Ella. She soon left Daniel for a cooler, less geeky research assistant, Lance Diabetes.
It is the second most frequent cause of food-borne intestinal poisoning; causing diarrhea. The CDC believes the incidents are greatly under-reported (like only 3 percent of the cases) because people don’t like to talk that much about having the squirts. This talk is most often kept in the family.
The first most frequent cause of intestinal poising is eating. A spokesman for peanut butter is quoted as saying, “You can’t say any food is completely safe. There’s an inherent risk in eating.”
Gotta love those defensive spokesmen for foods that make news for bearing bad bacteria.
Apparently, all reptiles should have a warning sticker on them from the federal government that indicates these animals can carry and shed salmonella bacteria. Tortoises are included in this possibility, and there is no way known to eradicate the bacteria from the animal.
So, like with the swine flu, this means a lot of hand-washing is in order, as well as the general avoidance of allowing one’s tortoise to romp on the kitchen counter among the raw chicken pieces scattered there, left at room temperature for the better part of a day with milk residue and raw egg whites sloshed on the wooden cutting board.
Speaking of chicken, half of the chicken sold in America carries salmonella. This comes as no surprise since chickens thrive and laugh more when they are living in their own poop. Cooking is what takes care of the salmonella we voluntarily carry into our homes on a weekly basis.
Other foods that salmonella bacteria enjoy include poultry in general, pork, alfalfa sprouts and an estimated one in 20,000 eggs.
Salmonella has to make its way into the intestines through the mouth, so touching a tortoise and licking your fingers is not advised. Once you have touched a tortoise, your unwashed hands or clothes can carry the bacteria to someone else, so it is also advised to avoid licking the fingers of someone else who has just touched a tortoise – even if it is your tortoise and the animal seems too cute to cause the runs.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Dr. Hades reappears 27 years later -- Again, I am in the wrong room
When last we left me I was stranded on a gurney in an Arkansas ER after having quietly announced myself as an emergency. The doctor on duty, Dr. Hades, had missed school the year they talked about bedside manner and compassion.
At about the time I was starting to believe I was in a Twilight Zone episode, a tenuous throat-clearing brought me back to reality – or at least a commercial break.
It was the orderly, waving his empty plastic pee flagon at me. His bright facial expression was easy to read: Would I like to try again?
For at least a change of scenery I got up and agreed to “give it another whirl.”
After a bit of worrying, I finally managed to “make water,” as my British friends put it. The water in question was a tad pink; a vast improvement over the coloration an hour ago. I was feeling better.
After getting back on the gurney and waiting some more, Dr. Hades stepped in and said, “Your blood sugar wasn’t 800. That was someone else’s.” Mine was 240, he explained. Still pretty high. (Normal people usually have a level of 120 or so.)
“We found red blood cells in your urine,” he said.
“Yes, I know.” I said. “I saw them.”
Tests and two days in the hospital with a country singer roommate were inconclusive. It was hypothesized that my daily jogging on an empty bladder had caused the inside lining to rub against itself to the point of introducing red blood cells to the urine. “Hi, nice to see you. I don’t think we have ever met before, have we? Well, don’t be a stranger. Are you leaving now? Oh, so are wee!”
Being made to feel unwelcome is something rarely forgotten. For me, it is the quickest way to cause me to never come back again. It doesn’t matter how self-forgetful I am supposed to be, or high-minded, or ready to indulge another’s weakness.
To the point, it was easy for me to consider tortoise owners to be among the most friendly and all-embracing group in the world – not as much so as members of the International Jugglers Association, but, who can top them?
For the most part, I believe, I am right about tortoise owners.
As I have only had Ilarion for just over six weeks, it seemed wise for me to join a few Yahoo groups that were topically bound to the care of Russian tortoises.
One of the groups, not surprisingly, uses the name RussianTortoise. I name them here only because there are other Yahoo groups that address themselves to this particular tortoise, and a generic reference could cast an undue shadow on them.
A week ago I asked the group in question about diet, since tortoise diets differ from species to species.
A woman in the UK proceeded to beat me about the head and ears via her reply.
It was then I realized that Dr. Hades had transmogrified into a cranky, superior, resentful, unpleasant, huffy UK woman who ends her vitriolic e-tantrums with, “Sorry, but you asked.”
I am in one less group now, as I was in the wrong room there for a few days.
At about the time I was starting to believe I was in a Twilight Zone episode, a tenuous throat-clearing brought me back to reality – or at least a commercial break.
It was the orderly, waving his empty plastic pee flagon at me. His bright facial expression was easy to read: Would I like to try again?
For at least a change of scenery I got up and agreed to “give it another whirl.”
After a bit of worrying, I finally managed to “make water,” as my British friends put it. The water in question was a tad pink; a vast improvement over the coloration an hour ago. I was feeling better.
After getting back on the gurney and waiting some more, Dr. Hades stepped in and said, “Your blood sugar wasn’t 800. That was someone else’s.” Mine was 240, he explained. Still pretty high. (Normal people usually have a level of 120 or so.)
“We found red blood cells in your urine,” he said.
“Yes, I know.” I said. “I saw them.”
Tests and two days in the hospital with a country singer roommate were inconclusive. It was hypothesized that my daily jogging on an empty bladder had caused the inside lining to rub against itself to the point of introducing red blood cells to the urine. “Hi, nice to see you. I don’t think we have ever met before, have we? Well, don’t be a stranger. Are you leaving now? Oh, so are wee!”
Being made to feel unwelcome is something rarely forgotten. For me, it is the quickest way to cause me to never come back again. It doesn’t matter how self-forgetful I am supposed to be, or high-minded, or ready to indulge another’s weakness.
To the point, it was easy for me to consider tortoise owners to be among the most friendly and all-embracing group in the world – not as much so as members of the International Jugglers Association, but, who can top them?
For the most part, I believe, I am right about tortoise owners.
As I have only had Ilarion for just over six weeks, it seemed wise for me to join a few Yahoo groups that were topically bound to the care of Russian tortoises.
One of the groups, not surprisingly, uses the name RussianTortoise. I name them here only because there are other Yahoo groups that address themselves to this particular tortoise, and a generic reference could cast an undue shadow on them.
A week ago I asked the group in question about diet, since tortoise diets differ from species to species.
A woman in the UK proceeded to beat me about the head and ears via her reply.
It was then I realized that Dr. Hades had transmogrified into a cranky, superior, resentful, unpleasant, huffy UK woman who ends her vitriolic e-tantrums with, “Sorry, but you asked.”
I am in one less group now, as I was in the wrong room there for a few days.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Hi. Uh, I am an emergency. Am I in the right place?
Years ago I walked alone into an emergency room in Arkansas and quietly told the admitting personage that I was, uh, an emergency.
I had walked in under my own steam and had driven myself to the hospital in my pickup. I didn’t look much like an emergency. I wasn’t in pain. I looked like an emergency’s boyfriend, or an emergency’s older brother.
The people in emergency clothes kept looking behind me apparently to see whatever critical medical problem I had brought with me … the girlfriend, or the little brother.
I was there because there had been blood in my urine. I figured a kidney had snapped in two, or that one of Thomas Alva Edison’s “little people” that keep the body functioning had left a hatch open somewhere. (Yeah, one of his inventions was for a means to communicate with them. But, since he invented the television and feet, history decided to forget about the little people, who are nonetheless sometimes thanked at awards banquets.)
In any case, I was plenty scared and did not know what was going on with myself. Inside the ER I was desperate for friendly smiles and warm demeanors.
The first thing they wanted was a urine sample. I calmly explained that I had just peed the scariest pee ever at home and that another pee could be a while in the making. I was asked to “try anyway,” so I went into a conveniently located bathroom, closed the door and did not “try anyway.”
I had been peeing since before I could remember, and not once did I ever save some for later. I knew this cause would be lost for at least an hour, and then succeed only if I drank water for 48 of the 60 minutes.
I opened the door and shame-facedly looked over the tops of my glasses at the orderly who was on pee-delivery duty that night, and shook my head in defeat.
Then I was guided into a large room with dark green tile and escorted onto a gurney. Blood was taken from my arm. I explained to the nurse that I might need that back, since I had just seen what looked like endless quarts of blood flowing where blood just shouldn’t ever.
After some gurney solitude in disquiet, I was accosted by the doctor on duty. When was the last time I had seen a doctor? Well, 1979. I am 25 years old; don’t I think I should be more responsible? Well, everyone else seems to think so. And, by the way, my blood sugar is over 800. As a diabetic, I should pay more attention.
Sometimes I being me has peeved people. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out why this man seemed to resent me so.
“Does anyone know why I am bleeding?” I asked, unable to leave the topic to discuss diabetes or anything else.
“No.”
I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong room.
Enthusiastic Narratort: Does Tim live? Will the ER doctor punch him in the face? Find out next time … Same tortoise time. Same tortoise channel.
I had walked in under my own steam and had driven myself to the hospital in my pickup. I didn’t look much like an emergency. I wasn’t in pain. I looked like an emergency’s boyfriend, or an emergency’s older brother.
The people in emergency clothes kept looking behind me apparently to see whatever critical medical problem I had brought with me … the girlfriend, or the little brother.
I was there because there had been blood in my urine. I figured a kidney had snapped in two, or that one of Thomas Alva Edison’s “little people” that keep the body functioning had left a hatch open somewhere. (Yeah, one of his inventions was for a means to communicate with them. But, since he invented the television and feet, history decided to forget about the little people, who are nonetheless sometimes thanked at awards banquets.)
In any case, I was plenty scared and did not know what was going on with myself. Inside the ER I was desperate for friendly smiles and warm demeanors.
The first thing they wanted was a urine sample. I calmly explained that I had just peed the scariest pee ever at home and that another pee could be a while in the making. I was asked to “try anyway,” so I went into a conveniently located bathroom, closed the door and did not “try anyway.”
I had been peeing since before I could remember, and not once did I ever save some for later. I knew this cause would be lost for at least an hour, and then succeed only if I drank water for 48 of the 60 minutes.
I opened the door and shame-facedly looked over the tops of my glasses at the orderly who was on pee-delivery duty that night, and shook my head in defeat.
Then I was guided into a large room with dark green tile and escorted onto a gurney. Blood was taken from my arm. I explained to the nurse that I might need that back, since I had just seen what looked like endless quarts of blood flowing where blood just shouldn’t ever.
After some gurney solitude in disquiet, I was accosted by the doctor on duty. When was the last time I had seen a doctor? Well, 1979. I am 25 years old; don’t I think I should be more responsible? Well, everyone else seems to think so. And, by the way, my blood sugar is over 800. As a diabetic, I should pay more attention.
Sometimes I being me has peeved people. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out why this man seemed to resent me so.
“Does anyone know why I am bleeding?” I asked, unable to leave the topic to discuss diabetes or anything else.
“No.”
I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong room.
Enthusiastic Narratort: Does Tim live? Will the ER doctor punch him in the face? Find out next time … Same tortoise time. Same tortoise channel.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Dear Internet, Please make up your mind. Sincerely, Tim
The internet is not always helpful.
Sometimes I think it would be just as effective to sit in the cart exchange area with the faux-stone floor at Wal-Mart and ask passers-by for the information I need.
“Hello there. Hey, was 1967 the Summer of Love? Not sure? Well, if you had to guess, what would you say? 1965?! I don’t think … Hello there. Hey …”
It would be like a living, breathing, social networking Wikapedia.
As the Bing.com commercials suggest, Google is downright ridiculous in providing information. I just googled (yes, it is a verb, good heavens) “Leonard Bernstein,” and got 1.77 million hits. After scanning about half of them, I can clearly see that not all the references are to Leonard Bernstein. To check this anomaly I googled my own name, and got even more hits than Bernstein – 2.54 million. Of these, only three refer to actually me; and several hundred actually refer to Bernstein. There is a photo of him and me together in 1955 – two years before I was born.
Apparently in googleland there is no degree of separation between persons.
Specifically regarding tortoises – I can tell by the questions and comments that other people have posted in groups, forums and QA formats – I am not alone in my http befuddlement.
For example, coconut coir is recommended by 7.9 billion tortoise people as a good substrate (or flooring) for a Russian tortoise (sometimes called horsfields, which is from their species name horsfieldii, the Latinesque version of their inventor, Alexander Graham Horsfield, known for shouting to his assistant, “Mr. Watson! Come here! This reptile has pooped without warning all over my plastron studies! I need you!”)
Okay, but one guy on YouTube (my go-to site for unambiguous, unbiased info) says that he “does not recommend” coconut coir for Russians. Any other tortoise is okay with coconut coir, but the placement of the eyes on the horsfield (something A.G. Horsfield overlooked) makes them prone to get coconut coir poked in their eyeballs. It is sort of like locking me in a room and playing nothing but country music all the time. Talk about your constant misery.
Beings as I still don’t know what coir is, and no one in my state seems to carry it, (Do you have coconut coir? No? What about raspberry coir? Or, just unflavored coir?) I have in this case avoided the majority viewpoint, and tend to believe the eyeball theory.
For another example, let’s take a tortoise question that should have a cut-and-dried answer: Shall I feed my Russian tortoise any fruits? Yes, or no. What do you say, Internet?
Ten minutes of surfing revealed this: 20 percent of their diet should be fruit … Fruit causes loose stools … Fruits are not recommended for horsfields … Give them fruit for a treat … Fruit can cause parasite buds … Any fruit is okay, except bananas … What about tomatoes? Only in months that have five Saturdays.
Other dietary advice from the Internet: Chard should be a regular part of the diet … chard should be avoided … Offer your tortoise cucumbers … Cucumbers should be kept to a bare minimum.
Clearly, as long as there is an internet, the horsfields don’t have a chance.
Sometimes I think it would be just as effective to sit in the cart exchange area with the faux-stone floor at Wal-Mart and ask passers-by for the information I need.
“Hello there. Hey, was 1967 the Summer of Love? Not sure? Well, if you had to guess, what would you say? 1965?! I don’t think … Hello there. Hey …”
It would be like a living, breathing, social networking Wikapedia.
As the Bing.com commercials suggest, Google is downright ridiculous in providing information. I just googled (yes, it is a verb, good heavens) “Leonard Bernstein,” and got 1.77 million hits. After scanning about half of them, I can clearly see that not all the references are to Leonard Bernstein. To check this anomaly I googled my own name, and got even more hits than Bernstein – 2.54 million. Of these, only three refer to actually me; and several hundred actually refer to Bernstein. There is a photo of him and me together in 1955 – two years before I was born.
Apparently in googleland there is no degree of separation between persons.
Specifically regarding tortoises – I can tell by the questions and comments that other people have posted in groups, forums and QA formats – I am not alone in my http befuddlement.
For example, coconut coir is recommended by 7.9 billion tortoise people as a good substrate (or flooring) for a Russian tortoise (sometimes called horsfields, which is from their species name horsfieldii, the Latinesque version of their inventor, Alexander Graham Horsfield, known for shouting to his assistant, “Mr. Watson! Come here! This reptile has pooped without warning all over my plastron studies! I need you!”)
Okay, but one guy on YouTube (my go-to site for unambiguous, unbiased info) says that he “does not recommend” coconut coir for Russians. Any other tortoise is okay with coconut coir, but the placement of the eyes on the horsfield (something A.G. Horsfield overlooked) makes them prone to get coconut coir poked in their eyeballs. It is sort of like locking me in a room and playing nothing but country music all the time. Talk about your constant misery.
Beings as I still don’t know what coir is, and no one in my state seems to carry it, (Do you have coconut coir? No? What about raspberry coir? Or, just unflavored coir?) I have in this case avoided the majority viewpoint, and tend to believe the eyeball theory.
For another example, let’s take a tortoise question that should have a cut-and-dried answer: Shall I feed my Russian tortoise any fruits? Yes, or no. What do you say, Internet?
Ten minutes of surfing revealed this: 20 percent of their diet should be fruit … Fruit causes loose stools … Fruits are not recommended for horsfields … Give them fruit for a treat … Fruit can cause parasite buds … Any fruit is okay, except bananas … What about tomatoes? Only in months that have five Saturdays.
Other dietary advice from the Internet: Chard should be a regular part of the diet … chard should be avoided … Offer your tortoise cucumbers … Cucumbers should be kept to a bare minimum.
Clearly, as long as there is an internet, the horsfields don’t have a chance.
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