Turtle Hell

Ignore the fact that this particular fella happens to be a box turtle.

Not even a box turtle wants to be trapped in a box while shrieking children grope you.
This is turtle hell.

Martin was shuttling the kids home the other night when he spied this turtle, stalled in the road. He scooped him up and popped him in the truck. It was the right thing to do; the odds of survival aren’t very good during rush hour.

“Turquoise,” as Hadley quickly named him/her, acted like a turtle on speed; he motored around Martin’s feet, shot under the seats, and all over the truck’s nether regions — undaunted by swinging toddler legs and happy meal fall-out.

At home when he wasn’t careening off the walls of his cardboard enclosure, Turquoise was manhandled by Cayden, who insisted on picking him up, putting him down and picking him up again. Turquoise was extremely tolerant of this practice. Or scared witless. He didn’t bite or threaten a nip, but he frequently took cover in his domed shell. 

Alls well that ends well, of course. Even with a name and three enthusiastic caretakers, we kept Turquoise for a whopping 30 minutes. Then we turned him loose by the river, far from callous drivers and crushing wheels. After a jarring gator ride and one final round of manhandling, Turquoise was set free on a sand bar. He launched himself into the water and never looked back.

Another happy participant in our turtle relocation plan.

Reminiscent of George’s send-off, two years ago