It was after having lived on Martindale Island for four months that I got the urge to eat a turtle. I had never eaten a turtle before, but I had heard stories of people eating turtles, and I guess this was enough to whet my appetite for these neighbors of mine. And so, with a fair length of rope and a countenance that would have made any safari leader proud, I headed out . . . on foot . . . to track down these elusive tortoises.
When I reached the beach I found them, as I had hoped, lulled into a false sense of security by the sun and surf . . . and completely unaware of the impending calamity. There was quite a large selection of turtles to choose from . . . so I shopped around a bit . . . and eventually targeted a turtle that seemed to have some fine cuts of meat but was not overly large. I approached my prey and offered a few pleasantries. Then, without any further ceremony, I flipped him . . . or it may have been a her . . . onto his back and tied the rope around his shell. I then began the long walk home . . . dragging the turtle behind me. I half expected the other turtles to muster an attempt to save their comrade . . . to rise up in anger and gather together into a sort of posse, and then, with the giant ones . . . nostrils flaring . . . leading the charge, to come after me. But such was not the case. They didn’t even budge, and I made good my escape.
Turtle is good. The flavor reminded me of the clam chowder I had so many times enjoyed at The Admiral Benbow Inn. And the turtle shells, once dried and cleaned, were very handsome things indeed. What exact uses they possessed, I didn’t know, but they were good for something, of that I had no doubt.
Over time I ingratiated myself with the turtles . . . sharing their beach and being neighborly and such . . . and I seemed to acquire a sort of exalted status among them. It was true that I would, on occasion, exact a tribute from them, but this did not seem to adversely affect my good standing . . . and I now set my sights on the goats.
I had no desire to eat the goats, I merely wanted to make friends with them. And it occurred to me that . . . some animals we eat and some animals we do not eat. For example, we would never eat a dog. Dog meat, for all we know, might be tender and succulent, but we do not eat dogs . . . or cats for that matter. But we eat fish and never give it a second thought. Goats, it seemed to me, lie somewhere between dogs and fish. But what did it all mean?
After pondering this question, I came to the conclusion that it is based on . . . affection . . . the animal’s ability to be affectionate. It is an inverse relationship where, the more affectionate the animal, the less apt we are to eat it. Fish never demonstrate affection. They raise their young and simply go through the motions . . . doing only what is needed and no more. Lobsters, I have no doubt, are the same way.
But goats . . . and we seem to perceive these things instinctively without need of evidence . . . are affectionate animals. Oh, they have their arguments, but, by-and-large, they are friendly creatures. And, as I have said, I decided to befriend the ones living on Martindale Island.
Goats . . . friendly creatures though they may be . . . are also skittish creatures, and every time I approached the herd, they would become frightened and scamper away. This made me wonder if the turtles were somehow able to communicate intelligence to the other creatures on the island. But my intentions were plainly innocent, and so I determined that some sort of strategy was now called for . . . and I devised a plan.
Using wood and cloth, I fashioned together a sort of scarecrow and dressed it in clothes that were the same colors as the clothes I myself wore everyday. I then sat this mannequin on a chair that I placed right where the goats liked to congregate. I put delicious goat treats on the mannequin’s hands, on its lap, and by its feet, and I would stop by every other day to replenish the supply of goat treats. I did this for three weeks.
After that, when I made my regular delivery, instead of just dropping it off, I would stay. I’d sit right on top of the mannequin . . . with goat treats in my hands, on my lap, and by my feet . . . and I’d hold myself perfectly still . . . and wait.
It took about two more weeks of patience before those first few brave goats ventured up to me and ate out of my hands, but it was not long after this that the entire group, generally, warmed up to me and accepted me as an honorary member of the herd, and I could then approach and mingle with the goats to my heart’s content.