People have different ways of relaxing. Some enjoy a glass of wine, while others go jogging or take an intense yoga class. Some find escape in sighing their way through a deep-tissue massage.

“Oxytocin helps us feel happy and trusting,” said one expert, which could be one reason humans bond with their animals.

I am a little different. I have a secret weapon to ease my mind. His name is Gary. He’s interesting, he’s loyal in his own way, and although he’s undoubtedly on the slow side, he’s definitely sincere.

Gary is a tortoise, and we are devoted to each other (when he’s not in partial hibernation in the cooler months).

Like many others, I find being around animals relaxing. And there is science behind the mental health benefits of human-pet interaction.

Rebecca Johnson, a nurse who heads the Research Center for Human/Animal Interaction at the University of Missouri College of Veterinary Medicine, told NPR that studies show interacting with animals can increase people’s level of the hormone oxytocin.

“That is very beneficial for us,” said Johnson. “Oxytocin helps us feel happy and trusting” — which, Johnson said, could be one of the reasons that humans bond with their animals.

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About 10 years ago I adopted Gary when my hairdresser had had it with him. Her kids were no longer taking care of him properly, and he was banging his head against the glass of his terrarium all day long in a desperate bid to get her attention. She finally relented, and since her hair studio was in her home, she placed Gary on a counter. There, he contentedly stared down her clients and enjoyed an occasional blast of heat from her blow dryer. I was transfixed.

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Gary the friendly tortoise, ready for his close-up

“Please, do you want him? Take him!” she exclaimed when I professed my secret crush on Gary one day, as she painted highlights into my hair.

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I have not met an animal I can say “no” to. While other people collect shells, stamps, or coupons, I collect animals that need a second chance. And Gary seemed so easy. I happily scooped him up and took him and all his assorted paraphernalia — heat lamps, hay, bedding, food — home with me.

Gary and I fell into a comfortable rhythm our first summer together. He would have a salad early in the morning, and then I would let him “free-range” around the house. Gary would follow me as I did chores, bumping down the hallway, until one of our dogs passed by him. Then, he would laboriously execute a 10-point turn and switch course, following them instead.

One Christmas season I was completely overwhelmed with errands and had not gotten any Christmas cards to mail to family and friends. I couldn’t even find a photo of any of my three sons together. In despair, I grabbed Gary out of his cozy house where he was contentedly burrowed under a pile of hay and stuck a candy cane under one bumpy armpit. I plopped a tiny felt hat from a toy elf on his head and took his photo (I had given him a strawberry as a bribe — they are Gary’s kryptonite — so his beak was also red, as if he was wearing lipstick).

“Take it slow this Christmas, and just enjoy time together,” I captioned the photo. Many friends said it was their favorite card of the year.

I didn’t know how much I loved Gary until he went missing one summer day. I had put him in an outdoor pen we made for him, unaware that tortoises can burrow deep into the earth and escape an enclosure. Just back from our vacation a few hours from home — we had gone to attend the wake of a family friend — my husband found me crying on our front steps.

“Aw, I didn’t know you two were that close,” he said, rubbing my shoulder, thinking I was mourning the person who had passed.

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Two great pals, Gary and Baby, a rescue poodle

“We weren’t,” I wailed. “Gary is missing!”

That afternoon I stood on the property line between my house and my neighbor’s and called his name over and over again. “Gary,” I called, seemingly into the void, my voice wavering. I felt I would give anything to see that lumpy shell, those plodding dinosaur-like legs, those bright but sunken eyes.

Suddenly, a pile of sticks and brush moved, and my Gary came lumbering toward me — I like to think he was racing toward me, anxious for me to pick him up. It’s hard to have a warm and joyous reunion with a tortoise, but let’s just say we snuggled.

Why does this tortoise, who makes no sound, does no tricks, and offers no real expression of love (except for following my every move in the summer) make me feel calm and happy?

I think Gary’s emotional inaccessibility relaxes me — I don’t ever know what he’s really thinking, and I like that, in a household full of very expressive humans. He’s kept to a slower pace by the cumbersome shell on his back, but I admire the way he doggedly keeps going once he’s on a course, never giving up. In Gary I can see an example of God’s creativity and imagination when it comes to his many creations.

Related: The Soul of an Animal

And when I watch Gary doing almost anything — eating, walking, staring into space — I relax. It’s that simple, and that mysterious.

I will have Gary all my life, I hope — tortoises can live for up to 150 years. And as long as we practice good hygiene around this reptile and take good care of him, I’m expecting smooth sailing with him. My sons like him, too, which is good.

We may never have a lot of money or an impressive stock portfolio to bequeath them, but they can look forward to inheriting an old tortoise. And when they’re stressed — they’ll thank me.