I had just put down a few freshly washed russet potatoes on the cutting board and was stretching for the utility knife, when my beau yanked open the kitchen door.
“Well, that was quick.” I hadn’t expected him for a few more minutes, since he was out to get the mail.
“I didn’t go yet,” he said, practically breathless. “Come with me.”
And out the door I went:
The turtle was huge, bigger than my smaller dog. We guessed it weighed about 30 pounds.
As my beau was heading out for his walk, he found the turtle sitting in the middle of the street intersection, balled up inside its shell. Worried someone would run over the little guy, my beau bravely picked him up, and walked back in the hot sun to our cottage.
After a few phones calls to the veterinarian and then to the Wildlife people, we learned that it’s preferred that any found turtle be left as is, since it mostly likely is heading somewhere. Good. Now we know.
Yet the funniest part of this story is the conversation, or rather, the questions the Wildlife person asked:
Where was the turtle headed? Sorry, we don’t know. It was sitting in the middle of the intersection.
What was it doing? Just lying there, hiding in its shell.
Was it scared? Maybe. It was hard to tell since it was hiding in its shell.
Was it going anywhere? Well, we didn’t ask to see its passport, so we don’t know.
We put the turtle on the lawn. Quickly (yes, quickly), he scurried over to the other side of the street and headed back towards the intersection. We looked in that area about a half hour later, and he was nowhere to be found.
©Susan Marie Molloy, and all works within.