Julius The Tortoise Won Our Hearts – Then Died of a Broken Penis
Amidst the Belgian emporium where destiny led us to Julius, the ambiance proved far from ideal. An assortment of creatures ranging from pups to wallabies, and even owls, could be obtained there. Alas, the atmosphere reeked of excrement and trepidation, instilling an instinctual unease within us.
Though we knew better than to procure a pet from such an establishment, fate wove a peculiar tapestry as we perambulated amidst sphynx cats, chinchillas, geckos, and chameleons. Our eyes beheld a majestic tortoise confined in a diminutive glass enclosure. Reminiscent of our childhood pets, we were enchanted by the idea of keeping him. His grandeur was unparalleled, measuring nearly 40cm in length, adorned with a head of yellow and black, and bejeweled ruby-red spots on his limbs. As he calmly devoured a stalk, he resembled a terrestrial dragon, ensnared in a box within the confines of a Brussels suburb. A swift, meaningful exchange of glances between my husband and me ensued, and we beckoned a sales assistant to our side.
The name bestowed upon him was John Paul II, an allusion to the semblance he bore to Karol Wojtyła. The cost of €500 left us astounded, and all we received in return was a receipt marked "Miscellaneous." Homeward bound with Julius resting on my lap, incredulity lingered in our hearts.
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In tribute to Julius II, we christened him Julius, believing that if he were to be a pope, he deserved to be one of the more extravagant Renaissance pontiffs. Our research into red-footed tortoises uncovered their tropical nature, rendering them non-hibernating creatures. Thus, we evolved into red-foot experts, procuring heat lamps and meticulously attending to his diet, where grated cuttlefish bone adorned his greens and fruits, while the occasional offering of snails delighted him.
Summers saw Julius basking in our modest backyard, while in winters, he roamed freely inside our abode, for the vivariums available were dwarfed by his presence. His curious and dauntless disposition often led him to improbable hiding spots for such a colossal being, occasionally found dozing within a cupboard, akin to a highly ornamental rock. Whenever we sat in the garden, he would amble over to investigate. Though reptile cognition is deemed primitive, an inexplicable affinity seemed to draw him toward us. In turn, we cherished our enigmatic housemate.
Yet, alas, this tale does not culminate in mirth. After a few years, we returned home to a distressing sight—Julius with his organ protruding abnormally. Promptly, we sought the expertise of a veterinarian, who remained baffled, describing it as an "erection gone wrong," albeit tinged with excitement. Manual reinsertion failed, leading to the unprecedented decision to amputate—the first of its kind in Belgium. Anxiously, we awaited the call that would determine Julius's fate, which eventually came, bearing news of his survival. He returned home for recuperation, but he was never quite the same: listless, disinclined to explore the house, and showing little interest in his greens. With my husband away on a journey, it fell upon me to apply iodine to the amputation site, delicately massaging him upside down over the sink as he resisted. His condition continued to deteriorate, and a few weeks later, he departed this realm, possibly succumbing to a post-operative infection or shock.
Once, I shared this account in jest—the receipt, John Paul II, the penile stump!—but now, it carries a somber tone. Julius's passing marked the moment I relinquished my Gerald Durrell-inspired fantasy of maintaining an abode filled with exotic creatures. I began to discern that such beings rarely find a harmonious place amidst us, and retaining them may not be an act of kindness. Although we still harbor little European tortoises, contentedly stomping through our garden and hibernating through winter, I think of Julius as one of my son's needy, constantly ailing tropical houseplants—mesmerizing, extraordinary, and marvelous, yet fundamentally unsuited for our gray, rainy lands.
