Safe Travels Little Buddy

I am in extreme (more like moderate) pain, both emotional and physical. I have severely bruised ribs on my left side. Scraped and cut thighs, a jammed toe, and hands that are cut and scrapped to shit. Add to that a new depression, and I am in pretty pitiful shape.

Why am I in pain?

In order to explain the source of my pain, we need to go back in time and start at the beginning.

Almost eight years ago, our landlord brought over a teeny tine little turtle, about the size as a quarter, for my daughter. She named it Swimmy, and I bought a tank and filter for him. We were pet owners once more, whether I wanted to be or not.

As Swimmy got bigger, we came to the realization that he was a snapping turtle.

The family soon lost interest in him, and his care fell on me. My wife wanted to release him back into the wild, but I’d grown attached to the little monster and decided to keep him.

Quick note. While releasing most species of turtles into the wild is a bad idea and will most likely result in their deaths, it’s different with a snapper. According to science, as long as a snapper is released into the area they came from, and they aren’t too tamed, it’s perfectly fine to release them. Adding to that, that they are apex predators in this region, and the danger to them is minimal.

For the next few years, I fed him, cleaned his take (with my youngest son’s help), and interacted with him through the heavy plastic of his tank. We learned quickly he was strong enough to break the glass.

He snapped at me at random times, and I joked that when I died, he could have one of my toes because he won the war against me. He got ahold of me once and stripped the flesh from the middle and ring finger on my left hand.

I loved my prehistoric predator little buddy.

After my son died last year, I started thinking about the quality of life. Swimmy lived in the largest tank I could find, but he was so large (the size of a large serving platter and over thirty pounds) that he couldn’t move more than a few inches.

He had to be miserable.

I’ve kicked the idea of letting him have his freedom ever since then.

Two months ago, I decided that when the weather was appropriate, I’d let him go. We live in a river valley, and there are several large slow running tributaries appropriate to letting him go.

Yesterday I set my little buddy free.

So how did this action lead to my current painful state?

I took swimmy to a spot by the river, off a back road, where people fish even though they’re legally not allowed to. Parking the truck, I took Swimmy out of the Rubbermaid tub I’d transported him in and headed down the wet and muddy riverbank.

I think you can tell where this is going.

I slid in the mud.

I lost my left shoe in the mud (I dug it out later).

I lost my grip on Swimmy and tossed him into the (thankfully) soft muddy ground.

I fell HARD three times, crushing up my rids, jamming my bare toe, and scrapping my legs to hell.

Finally reaching the river, I set my Little Buddy into the water, and he swam away.

I cried.

I half walked, and half crawled up the river bank.

I dug out my shoe.

I drove home.

I took a long hot shower.

I sit here filled with a lot of over-the-counter pain meds in my system. I know I did the right thing, and my injuries were worth it to give him his freedom. But I keep looking over to where his tank sat until yesterday, waiting for him to slam the plastic in his eternal effort to get at me.

I’m glad my little buddy is free to live his life.

I miss him terribly.

  - Josh (03/18/2021)