Our daughter, Carolyn, suggested that I might write about our Turtle. So, here goes.
About five years ago at Christmas, when our grandson, John, was still in college, we began hearing the most pitiful kitten cries. After quite a bit of investigation we discovered a tortoise shell kitten up a tree. It cried and cried, for several days and it didn’t seem able or willing to come out of the trees. I say “trees” because it wasn’t always in the same tree.
It was a lovely kitten, and I really wanted to help it, so we called our grandson, who came over, and with our then neighbor’s permission, he got our tallest ladder and climbed onto the roof of her carport. From there, he pulled the ladder up on the carport, as well, and climbed up the ladder to where the kitten was crying in an old oak tree.
He removed the kitten from the tree, got it and the ladder back on solid ground and we took her into our home. (Someone said they never picked a cat, the cats always picked them, and this was one of those times.)
The kitten was, and still is for that matter, a little spit fire. And I do mean spit. At the time we had a couple of old cats and an old dog, and the kitten made her way around the house spitting and cursing every living being, including the people. She called us all unspeakable names, but it appeared that she liked people OK, it was just dogs and cats she had a real problem with.
We named her Turtle, and we proceeded to tell our other grandchildren that John had gotten a turtle out of a tree and to ask if they wanted to see it. She was an instant hit with the family.