The first problem was how to remove it. My shell is a tight fit, contoured around a very soft body, and like a ship in a bottle I could not get out without incurring great damage.
        "Why?" my friends would ask, "Why do you want to get this shell off you? It's your home, it's your protection, it's what a tortoise is."
        "Exactly," I would reply, "Exactly why I want no more of it. I want freedom, I want no armored shell between me and the world."
        None of my tortoise friends would help me. They retreated into their shells, mumbling words like suicide and fool. I sat a long time pondering my dilemma and then began a pilgrimage towards my Mecca.
        Whosoever I met I would ask to help remove my shell. My request most often fell on deaf ears and occasionally suggestions would be offered that were of no use, if not life threatening. The badgers just laughed and the geese, in their spiteful way, suggested crossing the great road where the shell could be crushed. And at last in my despair the fox found me and promised to help.
        With string around my shell and tied to a tree he pulled at my stubby front legs. I did not budge though I wordlessly endured the pain. Next he upended me and with a stout branch hit the rear of my shell to dislodge me but it was to no avail. Between my shell and body we inserted flat sticks and tried to ease me out like a tire off a wheel but nothing came of it.
        Then, at his suggestion, I was put into a bowl of warm oil, hoping to make me slippery, and after an hours soaking we tried everything we had done over again, still to no avail.
        Exhausted we sat, and I plunged deep into despair, but refused to disappear into my shell for my one desire was to be free of it and be naked and vulnerable. The fox, dear fox, spoke to me sincerely.
        "Tortoise," said he, "I believe only two options remain. To break the shell or saw it open."
        "Do it," said I with no hesitation. "For it is what I want."
        The fox said only, " Are you sure, for there is no going back? "
        "I am sure." said I.
        Whereupon the fox left me for a few hours and returned with a hand saw and blood on his coat.
        "Are you alright Fox, dear friend?"
        "Ah yes," said he, though his breath did not come easily. "I ran into some trouble getting this saw from the farmer's tool shed."
        After a drink from the stream and a brief rest the fox was his usual self and began to saw through my shell. We debated at first about where to cut. The top? The bottom? We found that the upper part was too tough, the bottom much softer, so from that angle we set about cutting through the shell.
        "Like slicing through a bagel," said the fox.
        Several hours of delicate cutting later my shell was ready to be separated, the top lifted from the bottom, and with great delicacy the fox lifted them apart.
        Oh! Such joy. For the first time I was unfettered, free, my being open to the elements, the sun on my body, the wind caressing me like soft hands.
        "Thank you Fox, oh thank you," cried the tortoise, and he died.