What do two tortoises actually do all day?
Scratch and Shelby, since coming home with my dear Penny and me, spend their days in relative luxury.
At the moment they're also sharing their space with a tortoise on the mend: Pancake. You may remember her from an earlier article. Rescue Horsfield's tortoise. Wouldn't eat. Left in quarantine and eventually forgotten about. She's doing considerably better now and spends her days feeding, wandering and dozing around the garden while the British weather allows it.
But anyway. Scratch and Shelby.
During the warmer summer months, they sleep indoors in a large tub filled with hay in our kitchen, where we can maintain a stable overnight temperature. Every morning I get up, make my coffee and begin the daily tortoise migration.
Tub. Coffee. Fags.
Out we go into our secure back garden.
And when I say secure, I don't just mean there's a fence. The fences are dug down because a determined tortoise regards a normal garden boundary less as an obstacle and more as a challenge. Beyond that, there's grass. Lots of it. Weeds everywhere. Places to bask, places to hide, shade when they want it and an entire garden available for two leopard tortoises to spend their day doing...
Well.
What exactly do two tortoises do all day?
And they're off...
I lift the little buggers out and put them in the patch of bright sunshine we have by the shed every morning. Then I sit down, light up and enjoy my vanilla latte.
Scratch and Shelby, well aware by now of their surroundings and very much aware that this is home, begin their wandering.
Normally, shy Shelby is the first to move. She's the larger of the two tortoises and demonstrates this almost immediately by finding something to eat. She'll settle herself into a decent patch of grass and weeds and graze contentedly to her heart's content.
Then, once Shelby has settled on her first patch of the day...
He's off.
Scratch waddles into motion, desperate to finish the race that absolutely nobody else knew had started.
Scratch is a roamer.
And a world-class one at that.
Leopard tortoises have a few notable achievements to their name in the natural world. They're the fourth-largest tortoise species in the world, unusually for a tortoise they're capable of floating and swimming and, apparently, they can shift when they want to.
In fact, the Guinness World Record for the fastest tortoise belongs to Bertie, a leopard tortoise, who achieved a frankly blistering 0.28 metres per second—or around 0.63 mph—over a 5.48-metre course.
I swear Scratch is faster.
I'm not entirely sure where he's going. I'm not convinced he knows where he's going. But wherever it is, it's apparently extremely important that he gets there before every other competitor in the race.
There are no other competitors.
Scratch doesn't care.
Second breakfast
With Scratch circling the perimeter to start his day, Shelby is already on second breakfast.
Yup, I'm a Tolkien fan too. He was a local, after all.
Then something odd happens.
Every morning.
At some point, both tortoises make their way towards a patch of clover that grows closer to the house. Shelby abandons whatever she's been eating, Scratch temporarily calls a halt to whatever imaginary endurance event he's competing in, and the pair of them settle down to graze.
Just the clover.
And I mean just the clover.
I've double-checked this behaviour a number of times, usually by getting considerably closer than either tortoise would appreciate and inspecting exactly what they're eating. This generally results in two leopard tortoises staring suspiciously upwards as my enormous bald head suddenly blocks out the sun.
Can't really blame them.
I'd be fucking terrified too.
But clover it is.
For around twenty minutes they'll graze the same patch, ignoring the grass and other weeds growing around it. Then, apparently satisfied that second breakfast has been dealt with, their respective personalities reassert themselves.
Shelby has a nap.
Generally in the sun, exactly where she happens to be when the urge takes her.
Scratch?
Scratch starts running again.
It's a good life
Scratch and Shelby don't have an ideal life.
Would I want a larger garden for them? Of course. Would I prefer more grasses and weeds available in their diet? Absolutely. Will this area remain sufficient for them as they mature?
I don't know.
That's one question I'm going to have to answer further down the road.
And that's one question I'm a little scared of.
For the moment, my pair of dafties eat, sleep and, apparently, run around for most of their day. They have favourite places to eat, favourite places to bask and, because they're tortoises and therefore apparently incapable of appreciating anything I've specifically built for them, favourite places to sleep that have absolutely nothing to do with the accommodation provided.
Scratch enjoys a nap under the BBQ.
Bear in mind, we have a purpose-built tortoise house. We have several hides. There are shaded areas throughout the garden. Water is always available, as are places to get out of the sun whenever they choose.
Scratch has considered all of these options carefully.
He prefers the BBQ.
Shelby is slightly less particular. If she's warm, comfortable and has recently eaten something, she'll apparently sleep wherever the mood takes her.
And that's pretty much their life during the warmer months.
They wake up. They go outside. Shelby finds breakfast while Scratch begins whatever urgent mission has occurred to him that morning. They meet for second breakfast at the clover patch. Shelby sleeps.
Scratch has places to be.
Right now.
Eventually even Scratch runs out of imaginary appointments and settles down.
Then, as the day cools, Penny and I collect them, put them back into their hay-filled tub and bring them inside for the night.
Tomorrow morning, we'll do it all again.
Coffee. Fags. Tortoises.
It's a good life.
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