Tail... Why's It Like That?
A growing semi-aquatic turtle.
That meant keeping it moist all the way to Hanmaum Animal Hospital was crucial.
And to maintain the turtle's moisture, the love of Seoul's citizens.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—
Riding the public bike Ttoll-i was the optimal method.
As I pedaled relentlessly, faint exclamations poured from the mouths of the turtles in the black vinyl bags and basket.
—Whoa! So this is what the human world is like. It's on a whole other level from what we've heard!
—No way. Is that really Cheonggyecheon Stream? Was the place we lived that tiny?
—Ahem. Don't get all bumpkin-excited. Master always said the human world was huge. What's the big deal? We've seen stuff like that in Cheonggyecheon too... Well, okay, I didn't know it got this massive until now.
Turtles only climb onto rocks or aquatic plants briefly for some sunbathing; they can't stay out of water for long.
—Whoaaa! Humans really live in places with no water!
So the black vinyl bag holding water-filled Michelangelo went on the left handlebar.
—I heard humans conserve water. They have to pay to drink it, right?
The largest of the three, Leonardo—his carapace wrapped in a damp towel—rode in the Ttoll-i basket.
—Hmph. What fools. Paying for water to drink. Just drink whenever you're thirsty.
Raphael's black vinyl bag hung from the right handlebar as I kept pedaling Ttoll-i furiously.
"...Tuck your head in. We're almost there."
Before long, we'd arrived at Hanmaum Animal Hospital.
I brought the turtles to Hanmaum Animal Hospital, ran quick exams, and crashed for a short nap.
I closed my eyes and opened them—daylight already. A hectic day kicked off.
"Everyone, good work. I'll leave the cleanup to you."
"Good work, Director."
"You too!"
"Head home safe after cleanup. I'm off first."
How many hours of sleep was that?
After back-to-back surgeries on Leonardo and Michelangelo, evening had arrived.
The silver lining: Unlike the others, Raphael hadn't swallowed any coins, so no surgery needed.
Instead, Raphael was deep in gossip with Donatello.
"Phew..."
No shut-eye since the night before, so instead of heading straight home for dinner like usual, I returned to my room.
Needing to catch up on sleep first, I flopped onto the sofa—that very moment.
—Daddyyy!
The screen door rattled open, and Ssal-i's voice rang from behind.
"Nngh. Ssal-i? Hold on, Dad's just..."
Forcing my eyes open and glancing back, there was a pure white pigeon.
Whoosh—
In a warm glow, it instantly shifted to his curly-tailed Jindo mix form. Ssal-i flicked his eyebrows dramatically and barreled toward me.
—Daddyyy!
"Dad's super tired right now... Ngh! Alright, alright..."
Ssal-i, now pushing late 20kg, barreled into me.
Cozy warmth and hefty weight crushed me as his hot tongue slobbered my face wet.
"Ngh... Did our Ssal-i have a good trip? Eating properly? Smuggler hunting's important, but your health comes first. Got it?"
—Yeah! Ate all my meals! But Dad, that's not the point! I have something to tell you... Hm?!
Wiping my drenched face with my sleeve and sitting up, Ssal-i perked his ears.
"Ssal-i?"
—Shh! Wait, Dad!
His eyes misted white; in a flash, he turned into a Turkish Angora cat and bolted to the wide-open balcony.
"S-Ssal!"
I jolted up in panic—that instant.
Swoosh!
A white bird shot vertically from the balcony where Ssal-i had leaped—it was definitely him.
"What the... What's going on?"
Every time Ssal-i acted like this, something happened—like the calm before a storm.
Feeling needless anxiety, I figured I'd wait for him to return.
Piyoo—!
A clear white falcon swooped through the open balcony door.
"Ssal-i, you! Even if it's urgent, use the stairs! Dad's heart can't take you jumping out windows! If you're gonna do that, fly as a bird from the start!"
—Hehe, sorry Dad. But cat-jumping gives thrust... Anyway, Dad! I caught this guy!
"Thrust? You're getting a scolding... Huh? What's that...?"
Back to normal from falcon, Ssal-i pinned something with his paw.
What stole my gaze: the mystery furball under Ssal-i's paw.
"...Ssal-i."
—Yeah!
"...What is that?"
To my repeated question, Ssal-i didn't answer—instead, he chomped it and brought it to me.
What Ssal-i carried: none other than...
—Release me! What is the meaning of this!
"...?"
Even at a glance, its identity was baffling.
Calming my shock, I closely observed the thing flailing wildly in Ssal-i's mouth.
As a vet who talks to animals, I need to ID them first.
—I said release me! If you don't, I may get angry!
A rodent: tiny beady eyes, pink nose twitching, gripped in Ssal-i's mouth.
It looked like a regular hamster at first, but with a long, plump tail—not round like a hamster's. Definitely a jird (desert mouse) type.
"...Pet-tail?"
Not just any jird, but one with what looked like a fat innkeeper worm for a tail.
Fat-tailed or plump-tailed jird, also called pet-tail jird.
Native to the Sahara, they store fat in their tails like camel humps.
The fatter the tail, the more reserves. So why didn't I peg this dangling mouse-thing as a pet-tail right away?
Why's its tail... like that?
—Ngh. What insolence! Last warning! If you don't release me...
Its tail was shriveled thinner than a mouse's—not at all pet-tail-like.
Plus, matted fur and scars everywhere screamed rough life.
But.
—Ahh. This guy's so annoyin'. Let me gooo.
—Kyaaak! Spare me! I'm small—barely a snack!
"Ssal-i. Enough playing. Drop it."
Nod. Plop—
Ssal-i nodded and spat out the sniffling pet-tail jird.
Then pinned the saliva-soaked, pitiful thing with his paw to keep it still.
—He's been snooping around our house! Ignored him at first, but it creeped me out, so I brought him, Dad.
"Snooping?"
—Yeah! Checked out the first floor, second floor, everywhere!
Wild animals sometimes visit after hearing I'm a vet who hears them.
Whatever the reason, maybe this sniffling pet-tail under Ssal-i's paw was unwell.
"Ssal-i. Hand it over to Dad? Hey, don't bully it."
Words fell flat: the pet-tail rolled like a bowling ball into my hand from Ssal-i's nudge.
—Nghhh... P-please... Don't eat me! I can't die like this...
In my hand, the pet-tail exposed its white belly, flailing like pedaling a clear bike in midair.
Trauma from Ssal-i's mouth (thinking it'd be eaten), maybe.
But more telling: the loud gurgle from its belly and trembling legs screamed malnutrition exhaustion.
"Gotta feed you first. Ssal-i, grab some dried mealworms from downstairs?"
—Yeah! Be right back!
Pet-tail jirds are insectivores—bugs are main diet; feed/veggies as snacks.
—Nghhh. So... hungry...
Adult pet-tails average 40g.
Pet ones hit 60-90g.
This one in my hand? Barely 15g—way under average. My hand-scale rarely errs.
A Sahara native in central Yeouido? No way coincidence.
Likely abandoned, or escaped a cage during another pet's visit.
"Hang on. Ssal-i'll bring food soon. I'm vet Baek Min-hyeok. What's your name?"
How a desert critter ended up in urban Korea? We'd figure that later. First, intros to open talk.
But its answer hammered my head like a mallet.
—This one's name is Splinter.
"...What?"
Splinter.
The master name the turtles sought—the one I'd hunted for hours.
Chomp chomp chomp—nom nom—
The self-proclaimed Splinter vacuumed the dried mealworms Ssal-i fetched.
—Mmph. Mmph?
"Water bowl's there. Drink while you eat."
Jirds concentrate urine to conserve water in deserts.
Don't need much, but Splinter stuffed his cheeks balloon-like.
Gulp gulp—
He guzzled from the bowl, clearing his clogged throat.
—Ahh. Feeling alive now. Grateful for your aid. My mind's clear again.
Belching refreshingly, Splinter stood on hind legs, clasped front paws in salute, and bowed.
Such human-like manners? Definitely long raised by humans—not typical wild jird.
"Good. Mind seems sharp. Let's talk. Name's Splinter, right?"
—Indeed.
"And you came here to spy on the turtles?"
—No. Not spying—to check if they were safe here.
Belly full, Splinter's former politeness turned brazen.
"..."
I paused, stared, then continued.
"So, like the other turtles, you lived in Cheonggyecheon Stream. You thought you'd been kidnapped there at first, but ran into me. That right so far?"
—Yes. So, more mealworms...
As Splinter continued, I raised my right hand lazily, cutting him off.
Honestly, soberly hearing his nonsense made my head spin.
"Donatello, Raphael, Leonardo, Michelangelo. They told me Splinter was definitely a turtle. But you? Jird through and through. Need an explanation, no?"
—Hmm. No idea why they'd say that.
"...Yeah?"
—Yes. You see I'm a jird too, right? Must be their slip-up. No rush.
Clap clap—
'Claps... twice?'
Wasn't all that diving for turtles to find this?
PT instructor-level annoying claps too—my brow twitched.
"...Fine. We'll check with them. Come on."
—Huh? Wait. Why the sudden—
"Talking to them beats chatting with you. No backtalk, or else."
—Haha. Calm down. It's late—better take time to observe each other slowly, no?
Splinter dodged my grasp slyly—clearly hiding something.
But I wasn't playing along.
"Ssal-i."
—Yeah, Dad.
My genius pup.
One glance, and Ssal-i chomped the evading Splinter, handing him over.
—W-wait! No need to rush!
"I wanna rush."
—I-I'll explain! Can't tell them right now—that's why! Just wait...
"Yeah. Got it. I'll ask them myself. Thanks, Ssal-i."
—Hehe, yeah! Dad!
Taking Splinter from Ssal-i, he thrashed and yelled.
—The kids think I'm a turtle!
Utter nonsense.
"...Anyone can see you're not."