The Tortoise on Broadway

One Man’s Search for Fauna in the Most Unlikely of Places.

By David Kramer

Illustrations by Em Bennett

Every day, thousands of cars drive down Broadway, the average 1 train carries 7,000 passengers between dawn and dusk, and tens of thousands of pedestrians hurry across Manhattan. It’s a busy, noisy city.  

But in the basement of a pet store on Broadway, a tortoise sleeps. His name is George, he’s 28 years old, and he thinks you should feed him strawberries.

George leads an ascetic lifestyle. His diet is strictly vegan, supplemented by alms from the occasional wayfarer or customer who descends the metal steps to George’s hermitage. Indeed, this was how we met.

As a recent New York City transplant, I spend the majority of my idle time wandering the city’s streets with the elusive goal of making up for my provincial childhood. One morning, I decided to walk from Columbia down to South Ferry. I’d made it no more than 15 blocks when I noticed a cat in the window of a pet shop. I stepped through the door, and a polite “hello” rang out from the back of the store. A milk-carton-sized bird, perched on a shelf, greeted me with a wink and a smile.  

The bird and I exchanged pleasantries, but beyond that, we didn't have much to say to each other, and grew bored with the conversation. I was about to leave when the owner, Sam, pointed to the dark staircase descending into the basement and suggested I go down. I considered the old adage, “stranger danger,” disregarded it, and walked down the stairs.

The fluorescence of the pet store faded as the humid air of the cellar fogged up my glasses, and the hum of the fish tank pumps enveloped my ears. Out of the fog sauntered a tortoise, staring cock-eyed as if to say, “Hello, what is your name, what are you doing here, and did you bring me strawberries?”  

It’s not a unique observation, but in the short time I have been in New York, I’ve realized that there’s no quiet, and there’s little nature. Sirens penetrate even the most soundproofed places, and almost every tree, rock, and blade of grass has been disturbed, overturned, or sat on by the 8 million nature-starved urbanites of New York City (and their dogs). If the reason for my wandering was a search for quiet and nature, George seemed to be the solution.

Sam’s store, Petqua, acquired George when he was about two years old. Unwanted by his previous owners, George was given a small enclosure in the store’s basement until he grew big enough to escape and claimed the entire basement as his own. Now, George has grown to be the size of a large Butterball turkey. He is in good health and could live at least another 50 years. He also manages to get out from time to time, competing in tortoise races in the summer, attending birthday parties, performing in nonspeaking roles on Animal Planet, and even observing Yom Kippur (so far, nothing to atone for).

Since meeting George, I’ve brought many of my friends to meet and feed him. One friend, who’d taken a Buddhist architecture course with me, remarked that George might be the ideal monk. As far as can be observed, he is free of avarice, sloth, intoxicants, and has no earthly desires beyond strawberries.

Despite being in a pet store, George is not for sale. He’s part of the community, and his homo sapiens friends come to Petqua every day to feed him. “George gets along well with everybody,” Sam remarked. All visitors are welcome to feed him—plants only. George is partial to strawberries from Ferris Booth Commons, but I’ve also fed him lettuce, apples, and bananas.

When you go, pet George. His sand-colored shell may be hard, but he can feel your touch, and will intentionally walk into you and rub his shell against your leg—it’s his love language.

George was not the “nature” I expected to find in New York, but he is the “nature” I most treasure. I may ramble through Riverside Park on a rainy day, or watch the sun rise from the summit of Morningside Park on occasion, but the dark Broadway basement of Petqua is more appealing than anywhere else. It is to George that I return, again and again. 

And I always bring strawberries.