Frankie

“I found another turtle when I was out running and brought it home for the girls if you want it,” said my neighbor on the phone. It was déjà vu all over again. A second filthy suicidal street turtle that was probably ridden with salmonella and would likely spend it’s day plotting to either slowly escape or stab us? Hell yeah, I wanted it!

SAHS was out the door like a flash and five minutes later there was a turtle in our recycling bin.

Ella was at school so it fell upon Addison to name the creature. I expected “Turtle,” seeing as how it was a turtle, or “Franklin,” seeing as how that’s what every turtle’s name has been since the Turtle Week Debacle of ‘08. Ad surprised me, though. “He’s name is Frankie,” she declared. “Really?” I asked. “Not Franklin?” “He’s Franklin’s brover,” she clarified.

Frankie was not like his predecessor, though. Unlike Franklin, who put up with being chalked upon and quietly bided his time until his opportunity to escape came, Frankie was more vocal about his hating us. He hissed whenever we came near him, which is something I didn’t even know turtles could do.

I fed him some lovely baby greens, he hissed. Ella made him a cabana, he hissed. Addison blew bubbles all over him, he hissed. I offered him a Bud Light, he hissed.

Frankie wasn’t with us for long until he hissed himself horse and we deemed it was time to let him go before he stabbed us in the face while we slept. Here are some highlights from his stay:

Turtles don't even eat hoagies, assholes.

poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke

Hey Frankie, are we there yet? How about now? Now? Maybe now?

thinking stabby thoughts

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