Freddogg Off The Chain

The University of Maryland Terrapins recently came up with a slogan “Fear the Turtle” which is kind of funny because unless you’re a naked swimmer in a river of snappers you just ain’t afraid of turtles or is you?

Two summers ago my dog Jesse came upon a large snapping turtle that just appeared in the middle of a dry field. This turtle was bigger than a manhole cover. Jesse circle and barked and acted nuts but she doesn’t possess the blood lust of a killer. The turtle didn’t retract but just waited with an attitude like “Get closer bitch” and I’ll be hanging on you like an unwanted pregnancy.

The next morning Jesse and I popped out through the garage people door and that turtle seen a mile away the day before was waiting for us in the driveway. I stepped out of the way like Duce Staley on a guard trap. It was eerie, being stalked by a freaking turtle.

Some years back I was at the Philadelphia zoo and who stops and looks at the giant land turtle natural habitat exhibit except me? A zoo keeper with a sullen attitude was rapping a large turtle’s shell with a push broom handle. It was 2 p.m. hot and dusty, and a crew of little black kids from a Philly school stopped and many said, ”Look at that man beating down that turtle, that ain’t right.”

I asked the guy what he was doing and he said he only had two hours to get each of four thousand pound turtles back inside so he could go home at 4 p.m. ‘Do they have a concept of inside, ”I asked. ”I mean they are nature’s mobile homes or trailer trash if you like. Do they have a sense of direction? “

The vibrations agitate them and they move but rather aimlessly and occasionally I have to put a boot up their butt to turn them around.”

Turtle butt? I never heard that used in a sentence before?’ I didn’t say Turtle butt, dickhead, you did.”

Ah you’re a regular raconteur, the uppity professional turtle agitator. Hey get me a cup of turtle soup and make it snappy!”

Back in 1964 I was a freshman for the first of a few times in a history class on Western Civilization at Temple University. The class was packed with smart Jewish kids and some herringboned dweeb professor along with my dumb ass, a virtual snapping sea turtle on the sand flats of knowledge.

I sat for weeks without any interest and without any clue. A class discussion on Roman warfare was underway one morning and the professor asked “What did the Romans called the attack formation where they moved as one covered all around by shields with their lances sticking out.

I raised my hand but not to take the obvious joke. ‘It was called a turtle,” I said, standing up. The entire room erupted in volcanic laughter. Little Jewish guys had tears in their eyes. The laughs kept coming like lava down the mountain.

‘What do you mean a turtle, the professor asked, with an attitude like “I got this—let me make sport of this obvious dumb ass jock”?

Some wired up day student that weighed about 100 pounds said, ”Professor it was called a Phalanx.” More laughter ensued. I was about to launch my own phalanx assault because I don’t mind being stupid and I don’t mind people laughing about it but there is a limited time period that I’m willing to accept being the designated moron.

‘I’ve got your phalanx right here Boney Maroni! If you knew anything about Charlton Hesston and Ben Hur you’d know that attack/retract formation was called “The Turtle”.

Ironically the professor kept me after class and told me I was hostile and that I should concentrate on sports and not intimidate “the real” students and that he never heard of “The Turtle” and he knew everything about Roman warfare.

I thought that was cold blooded. And that is my Turtle triology.

Peace Freddogg