The Summer Of The Desecrated Turtles

Painting the word “Fuck” in fluorescent pink letters on the shell of a huge turtle would, I’m certain you’d agree, constitute a desecration. Such an act would be an affront to any definition of the sacred you could offer, and would thus be a grievous sin.

Releasing in a muddy creek a turtle that had been desecrated in such a fashion, and forcing it to go back to live among its fellows branded with a hot pink profanity would certainly only compound the already unpardonable sin.

I am feeling generally contrite today, and so wish to confess that once upon a time I did, in fact, desecrate a turtle –one of God’s most interesting and benign creatures– exactly as described above.

That long ago incident has come to me as a repressed memory, washed ashore on the waves of contrition that have been rolling in my skull all morning.

I can offer no reasonable defense for my actions, but I hope that I will be allowed to at least point out that I was at the time quite young, and I was bored and unconsciously cruel, a common enough combination, I suppose, in small town kids.

There was a creek not far from our house, and though my brother and I were not fishermen we did discover that during the summer months this creek was full of sluggish turtles. I’m not sure, really, what kind of turtles they were, but they were big, and surprisingly easy to catch. Sometimes we’d catch them with our bare hands; other times we’d use cheap nets we’d stolen from somewhere.

Often we’d take the turtles we captured back to our house, where we would deposit them in a plastic wading pool. They were fascinating things to look at.

I think the idea to use the shells of the turtles as profane billboards came to my brother and me as a sort of inspiration. I’m sure we thought it was funny at the time.

I hate to implicate my brother in this unpleasant business at all, but in the interest of fairness I feel the need to mention that he also painted a turtle. He was two years younger that I was, though, and not yet quite as confident or cavalier in his use of profanity.

My brother chose to name his turtle, and to paint that name on the turtle’s shell. The name my brother chose, and which he emblazoned across the poor creature’s shellacked and ornately detailed shell, was Mr. Poop.

Our parents were fine, upstanding people. They had raised us to know that the descration of turtles was wrong, even if they had never specifically proscribed such outrageous behavior.

They shouldn’t have had to, of course. We knew better. We both knew that one day we would be expected to answer for our sins.

I can only beg forgiveness, and pray that my sincere contrition will earn me dispensation, if not peace of mind.