Terrapin Station or “We lost a ten-inch turtle somewhere in our home.”
I blame my sister-in-law.
She showed up this morning with a smug look and a promise that there was an attractively large turtle languishing in our driveway.
Never mind the fact that she let Sue spend the night with the two nieces so we could take the boys to eat Mexican food since Sue cannot abide by Mexican food for some odd reason.
Why I didn’t take a photograph at the time, I will never know but we Googled the turtle, and just about definitively determined the creature to be a box turtle, although his or her feet appeared slightly webbed.
Let’s just pray s/he is not some sort of snapper.
How does such a thing happen?
Well, in the interest of science, I agreed to allow the creature come inside so the boys could embark upon some “research.” A bit later we find ourselves an hour into a great pool visit when I casually remark, “I’m sure one of you took the turtle outside, right?”
“Right?”
The boys look at one another.
“Well, he’s such a slow creature, I’m sure he’s still under the trampoline in the playroom where we left him,” assured Joseph.
I feel such comfort.
Several hours later, I assume the creature will still be huddled quietly in the playroom, potentially trying to siphon water from one of the dog’s slobbery chew toys or render a nest from the revolting shag carpet that graces this particular room.
Such is not the case.
Friends, we have looked everywhere for this terrapin to no avail. The children are fearful of waking in the night and encountering the beast.
I’ve spread plastic plates of water, blueberries and an occasional errant lettuce leaf around the house in an effort to sustain the creature.
Joseph suggested we catch several crickets and beetles and let them loose since they are the turtle’s natural “prey.”
Let’s hope it does not come that. Few things are worse than a deceased terrapin languishing in the home.
Right?
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