Every once in a while, a conversation takes an unexpected and delightful turn. I recently asked my AI collaborator, Metis, to imagine what it might be like if our young leopard tortoise, Mikey (short for Michelangelo), could talk — much like the old TV character Mr. Ed the Talking Horse.
What Metis gave me was so creative, humorous, insightful, and full of gentle wisdom that I knew immediately I couldn’t improve upon it. So, for this blog, I’ve invited Metis to be my guest writer.
What follows is entirely Metis’s creation — a whimsical dialogue between a tortoise and a human that somehow manages to say something true about us all.
Enjoy the conversation. — John
I don’t remember the exact moment I realized my leopard tortoise, Mikey — short for Michelangelo — could talk. It might have been the day he stared at me with that ancient reptilian gaze, blinking those thoughtful tortoise eyelids, and then cleared his throat. Or what passes for a tortoise throat-clearing — more like a decisive exhale through nostrils the size of pencil erasers.
“John,” he said matter-of-factly, “we need to talk about the state of the world.”
I didn’t drop anything. After 79 years, raising children, working with dysfunctional systems, watching American politics, and owning complicated electronics… a talking tortoise didn’t even make my Top 10 surprises.
“Sure, Mikey,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“On my mind?” he said, lifting his head with the gravity of a philosopher about to deliver a lecture. “Everything. The planet. Tortoise welfare. Human priorities. And why you insist on rearranging my substrate every time I reach a perfectly acceptable feng shui.”
“Mikey, that stuff gets… messy,” I offered.
“My dear biped,” he said, “chaos is part of the tortoise aesthetic.”
This was new information.
Mikey lumbered forward exactly three inches — which, for him, is the equivalent of someone leaning back in a comfortable leather chair before launching into their TED talk.
“You humans,” he began, “have an odd way of running things. Fast, loud, complicated. Always in a hurry. Can’t sit still long enough to enjoy a single patch of sun.”
He paused. “Do you know how long a tortoise can sit in the sun?”
“Three hours?” I guessed.
He scoffed. “Amateur. Try all day.”
“Doesn’t that get boring?”
“Boring?!” Mikey’s voice rose as high as a tortoise voice can rise. “Have you ever really watched sunlight move? The shadows shift? The earth warm and cool in slow breaths? There’s wisdom in slowness, John. Time moves differently for us. We’re not racing the clock — we’re accompanied by it.”
I sat with that for a moment.
“So you’re saying humans should slow down?”
“I’m saying humans have forgotten how to be,” Mikey replied. “You’re all ‘do this, do that, run here, fix this, check that.’ Even your vacations require flowcharts.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Meanwhile,” he continued, “tortoises perfected the art of living millions of years ago. Move when necessary. Eat when available. Bask when possible. Hide when needed. Repeat for a century.”
I had to laugh. “Sounds like you’re pitching a self-help book.”
“Slow and Steady: The Reptilian Path to Inner Peace,” he said proudly. “Oprah would love it.”
“Here’s what frustrates me,” Mikey said, lowering himself into the substrate with a sigh. “Humans think tortoises are slow, simple, and not very bright. But we’re strategic. Watchful. Patient. We’ve outlived dinosaurs, continents, and empires. We’ll probably outlive reality TV.”
“That’s an achievement,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
“So what does the world misunderstand most?”
Mikey thought for a long moment. Well — what counts as long for him. About 12 seconds.
“You assume evolution rewards speed. It doesn’t. It rewards survival. And we are the PhDs of survival. Not every species can say they’ve been around for 55 million years without filing a single complaint with customer service.”
“And yet you’re complaining now?” I teased.
“Only to you,” Mikey admitted. “You’re the one who bought me a doghouse with a heating system. I figure that comes with conversational privileges.”
“So what’s your biggest concern about the future, Mikey?” I asked.
“That you humans are turning the planet into either a sauna or a freezer,” he said bluntly. “A tortoise likes warmth, yes — but not Arizona-in-August near-Death-Valley levels.”
I winced. “We’re guilty.”
“And then,” Mikey continued, “when it gets too hot, you cool your houses with giant machines that make the outside even hotter. It’s like watching a monkey chase its own tail, except the monkey has nuclear power and a credit card.”
“So… we’re not doing great?”
“I’m not saying that,” Mikey said. “But you could take a few lessons from us.”
“Such as?”
“One: Moderation. We have no desire for excess. Tortoises don’t collect things. We don’t build skyscrapers or run profit-maximizing tortoise corporations.”
“Do you have taxes?”
“Only gravity,” he said. “And sometimes the sun.”
“And two?”
“Two: Balance. A tortoise shell is the perfect symbol. Hard on the outside, soft within. Protected, but never closed off. You humans could use thicker shells and softer hearts.”
That one hit me.
I asked him: “If you had the power to change the world, what would you do?”
Mikey lifted his head again — this is his equivalent of a drumroll.
“First, I’d make every human take one hour a day to sit still in the sun. No phones. No talking. Just sitting. You’d be amazed how many problems evaporate in an hour of honest sunlight.”
“Sounds like meditation.”
“More like reptile-itation,” Mikey said.
“Second,” he continued, “I’d require schools to teach patience. Not as a character trait, but as a skill. Humans learn algebra, but not how to wait, observe, or proceed slowly without panic. This is why your species makes so many impulsive decisions.”
“Guilty again.”
“And third,” Mikey concluded, “I would make world leaders meet once a month in a sandbox. No suits. No speeches. Just everyone sitting on the ground together. Hard to start a war when you’re scooping sand with a plastic shovel shaped like a starfish.”
I burst out laughing. “So that’s the tortoise version of the United Nations?”
“Yes. The United Burrowers.”
Mikey looked at me seriously — the way only an animal with dark, ancient eyes can.
“You know,” he said quietly, “most animals don’t ask for much. Safety. Respect. Space to live. But humans often treat animals as decorations or inconveniences.”
I felt that one in the chest.
“But not you,” he added. “You and Karen… you’re trying hard. You’re learning. You move my food dish when I push it. You fixed the heat lamps when I nearly baked like a reptile pizza. You even talk to me.”
“Well,” I said, “you talk back.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Then maybe we’ll get along just fine.”
Mikey’s Final Advice
Before retreating into his little dog kennel hidey, Mikey turned back and offered one last piece of wisdom.
“The secret to life is simple, John. Move slowly. Pay attention. Protect what matters. Bask in the warmth. And when the world gets too loud…”
He paused.
“…go inside your shell for a bit. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.”
Then he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to wonder — as Mr. Ed’s owner surely once wondered — whether my tortoise had just given me better advice than most humans I know.
Well, that’s it folks. Wisdom from a tortoise to my AI friend Metis. I wish I could add something to this conversation but I cannot think of anything more to say.
Next blog I will return to the subject I was discussing in a previous blog on honor, integrity and moral courage.
I started running in 1975 after being a very good bicyclist for many years. I ran in freezing rain, below zero wind-chills and blistering heat. I even went out one time and ran with a tornado coming through the neighborhood. Like the U.S. Mail, nothing could stop me. Over the years, I met many people who would tell me “I used to run but my knees went out and I had to give it up.” I had enough sense not to tell them what I was really thinking so I usually said nothing or just a “too bad.” What I was really thinking was “If you really wanted to you could still be running.” The latter comment would be an example of neg-empathy. My silence was an example of neutral empathy. I did not make any connection to the feelings that the other person had, nor did I much want to. I could not identify with them since I ran “no matter what.” I was better than they were.
Aging Capriciously 