What the heck am I reading and who is Herman?

If you had those same questions as posed in the title, then that's good. It means you can read, infer logical questions in a particular circumstance, and probably score higher than the desk on which you took the ACT. Knowing this, I know that you'll love this blog and that you'll love Herman. I also know that you're thinking Why am I reading this dumb blog if he's not even going to say who Herman is? Well, for all my impatient readers, Herman is my older sister's turtle. She went away this summer to work and she left Herman at our home. I thought nothing of this turtle except annoyance that I might have to clean and feed it. Nonetheless, judging by the fact that I'm writing a blog about him, something irreversible happened. Laying in my bed during a slow Sunday afternoon, I was reading "Cry the beloved the Country" (I had an impromptu essay on it the next day in class). It was book in which one could lose themselves, but the sound of taps against a plastic bucket accompanying my father's footsteps up the stairs roused my interest. My father, who had been cleaning his tank outside, made the treacherous mistake of letting him play freely in the grass.
Cry! The beloved turtle. That you might not enjoy the soft, lush grass too much. That you might not like cool breeze, the open sky, the warming sun. That you might not have passion. For Passion is too big to fit in the confines of your tank.
Herman was frantically trying to escape. Upon his entrance into his abode, he violently slammed at the debilitating glass with all his force as he has never been seen to do. All he had now were rocks, a heating lamp, and an Easter Island miniature stone head, whose comedic expression seemed to mock the now tired Herman and his predicament. It was not my idea and probably not Herman's either, but our fates are now intertwined. I do not ask that every captive turtle in the world be free, but I simply seek to pressure my sister to create a livable life for this one turtle. I know this turtle will never know my name, but I know he's sad and his sadness cries out to me. This blog is for him.