By Libbie Summers
Assisted by David Dempsey
During my seventh year, two small green “swimming turtles” lived in a pond shaped bowl on the desk in my bedroom. The turtles seemed happy to me…swimming freely around the rock mountain and sunbathing on the plastic palm tree island I had crudely crafted.
I loved those turtles.
My mom…not so much.
Every two weeks mom would march into my room and demand I clean my stinking turtle bowl before (and I quote) “the authorities come to arrest you.”
I cleaned the turtle pond as instructed by my mother because that’s what a seven year old responsible pet owner does.
I didn’t clean it because the smell bothered me, or because my turtles seemed phased by the murky water and I certainly didn’t clean it because I thought I would be arrested –even a seven year old can smell bullshit through turtle schtank.
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