I was romping around my backwoods backyard in Bangor, Maine when I happened upon a large, wild turtle in our creek. It was a hot day and he was covered in mud, piled about 4 inches high on his back. I thought, "This poor guy is gonna drown! Here he is sitting in the water, covered in mud, barely able to move. I better clean him off."
So I spent a little while scraping it all off, taking care of him. I wondered what he liked to eat. I plucked some grass and held it out for him.
In an instant he snapped down on it so hard that he took a tiny chunk of my tiny finger with him. I bled all over him, screaming. In just as much of an instant, it occurred to me:
Sitting in the water: it's hot out.
Covered in mud: it's hot out.
Barely able to move: he's a fucking turtle.
I ran inside and he slowly crawled away, presumably smug about it all. I still have a small lump on my finger to remind me of his betrayal. Years later, I'm blogging about this. And he? Dead.