The ballad of Timothy the Turtle

When I was five, the local zoo went under and they had a close out sale, and my parents bought me my favorite amphib, Timothy the Turtle. Timothy and I were inseparable. He was the only soul alive that understood me. I used to whisper to that lovely turtle my biggest secrets, and he would grunt and hiss his sympathies.

One day I decided to run away from home and I hopped on Timothy the Turtle’s back, with a stick and a carrot. I held it in front of Timothy, just far enough out of reach for snacking to get him to hightail it in pursuit of the juicy veggie. Timothy gave chase, but after a minute, he’d had enough and turned around and bit my ankle.

My parents sold him to the local Hormel food processing plant and he was made into soup. I was given a can of that soup, and I kept it on my dresser next to my bed. At night I would whisper my secrets to the can. I still have it. It’s a little rusted.