First, a moose.
Then, the other day, on the same road: a small dark lump. I was doing 50 mph and held my breath as I steered over it, careful not to smash it with any of my tires.
There were cars behind me.
I could have kept going, except, of course, I couldn’t.
I pulled over. I made a U-turn. I drove back, holding my breath again.
The lump was still in the middle of the road, unsquashed, but surely not for long. A box turtle.
Dear God. I pulled over in the gravel, cringed as traffic flew by, narrowly missing the turtle with zooming tires.
I sprinted. I seized the little guy. I took him across the road, in the direction he was pointed. I hope I got him close to his intended destination. I did my best.
We do our best.
This same week: another small lump in the middle of a road. Crikey! Barely anywhere to pull over. And yet.
Of course. I jogged back to find him. Her? This one, feisty. When I touched her shell, she sprinted. I had no idea turtles could be so zippy. I lunged over and over for her. She was surprisingly strong, too.
Finally, I scooped her up, managing to avoid being squashed myself in the process. Crankiness emanated from the shell. She’d tucked herself completely inside it, and was surely grumbling. I bolted up a nearby lawn and set her down in a grassy, dewy, leafy glade. No thanks from the shell. My friend K insists I thwarted a tortoise suicide attempt and thus did not deserve thanks. She may be correct, but I could not bear to drive that stretch later in the day and find a crunched shadow.
I can only handle so much, these days. You know.
A moose, two turtles, and today, a deer. An arc of light tan motion, hurtling between my car and another. Gone. Safe. I exhaled, possibly for the first time in a week.
How many spirit guides can one have?
Comments on this entry are closed.