My rural, southern education, part 2

Please begin this story by reading part 1.


Now, to clarify, I’m not in the habit of collecting roadkill, although I’m convinced I could easily feed a family of four quite well on the carcasses I pass every day on our winding back roads. But this snapping turtle was different—a fresh kill, still resembling the large turtle she was, but obviously no longer having a future in anyone’s pond.
I pulled off at the first opportunity to turn around. Keeping her location pinpointed across the highway, I looped back around and quickly pulled onto the shoulder where she lay. After all, such a prized turtle would be attractive to so many, I was sure. I had to act fast.
The traffic whizzing by, I grabbed her by the tail and slid her motionless remains into the only covering I could find—my Walmart bag, its contents dumped onto the back seat. I hoisted the heavy bundle into the car, setting it carefully on the floor, just behind my seat, and sped off—feeling very proud of my scavenging abilities and dreaming of turtle soup.

It might be interesting to mention at this point, that turtles predate dinosaurs. In the 215 million years they’ve been on earth, they’ve even survived a nuclear winter. I wish I’d known these impressive statistics before we drove home together that day.

I didn’t give a second thought to the rustling behind me as I happily drove along—windows down, enjoying the spring day. It wasn’t until I stopped and idled quietly at the traffic light that I realized I wasn’t alone. The snapping turtle, still encased in the shopping bag, was walking around in the back seat.

(to be continued, go to part 3)