I watched Gary nearly get hit by a truck. That’s how I met him. Gary is a baby turtle. He fits in the palm of my hand. Smaller than a can of Skoal. Bigger than a silver dollar.

I am staying at a cabin on Lake Martin. The weather was nice. I went for a walk on the empty, rural two-lane highways.

I saw Gary crawling across the vacant road. A speeding truck approached. Roaring its engine.

Now—believe me—I know what I’m about to say sounds insane, but I seriously believe the truck was trying to run Gary over.

I think this because Gary was on the yellow line, and clearly visible from a distance. And when the truck shot past me, the teenage driver was laughing wildly, evidently intentionally swerving toward Gary.

I could not believe what I was seeing.

“No!” I shouted.

It was one of those teenager trucks. Tires the size of kiddie pools. Tailpipes loud enough to change the migratory patterns of waterfowl.

The windows were down. The stereo was pumping “bro country” music—songs about cutoff shorts, barefoot blondes, pickups, and beer. Pop music sung by grown men stuck in high school.

Thankfully, the truck missed Gary by nanometers. Then, the vehicle screeched away in a fog of blue exhaust.

I jogged across the highway and held up oncoming traffic, waving my hands. I lifted Gary into my hands. He was tucked tightly into his shell.

A lady in traffic stepped out of her car and started shouting at me. She was irate.

“Why are you stopping traffic?” she asked.

“It’s a baby turtle,” said I.

“Are you [cussword] kidding me?” she shouted. “You stopped traffic for some [cussword] turtle!?”

She sped around me. The other cars followed suit.

I took Gary home. On our walk, he pooped in my hand. And that’s when I knew we were going to be fast friends.

When animals urinate or poop on you, that means they’re comfortable with you. They like you. I’ve had hundreds of animals poop on me throughout the years. I count it all joy.

One of my fondest memories is when a blind rescue dog named Marigold emptied her bladder on my lap in the backseat of a Ford Transit van.

So anyway, I named him Gary because I had an uncle named Gary who did magic tricks. Uncle Gary and Aunt Joy. I loved Uncle Gary.

He was bad to drink, his face was always red. But he was kind to me. He taught me jokes, helped me learn to laugh after my daddy took his own life.

Uncle Gary used to come around a lot to make sure I was okay. Whenever he hugged me, he reeked of Old Spice. He used to squeeze me tightly and cry for no reason at all.

In the end, Gary (the turtle) and I both made it home safely. Whereupon I called a friend of mine who is a veterinary doctor.

Turns out Gary is a box turtle. The doctor said I should keep him for a while and feed him before putting him back in the wild. Just to give him a break from the rigors of the real world.

So I got a big Tupperware container and filled it with foliage, chopped romaine lettuce, and water. Gary’s Tupperware has been sitting beside me while I write this. He keeps looking at me.

Now and then I’ll stop typing, remove Gary from his pen, and hold him.

He just stares at me with buggy eyes, unafraid whenever I stroke his shell.

Yes. I know it might make me pathetic to say it, but I am not ashamed that I already love him. For to me, Gary is not just “some [cussword] turtle.”

And thankfully, I wasn’t just “some [cussword] little boy” to Uncle Gary.