It all started in Georgia. There was a turtle blocking the highway. It was an old, rural highway. Two lanes. Way out in the sticks.

The turtle was the size of a tea saucer. And it wasn’t moving. The turtle sat on the yellow line, head inside its shell. Cars sped by faster than Chuck Yeager on a beer run. And yet the turtle—somehow—had not yet been crushed.

The year was 1991. Bill had just graduated college. He stopped to rescue the turtle, and flagged down traffic. He lifted the creature into his hands and marched it over to the shoulder.

He placed the creature in the grass and told the turtle to “Go home, little guy.”

But the turtle did not go home. The turtle turned and began walking toward the highway again.

So Bill decided to—why not?—take the turtle home. He had never owned a pet before. He was a 19-year-old guy, and his main hobby at the time was Budweiser.

He named the turtle Skidmark. But everyone called the turtle “Mark” for short.

Mark was great fun at parties. They’d take him out of his aquarium and watch him wander through the apartment. Bill’s friends would balance beer cans on his shell, or slices of pizza, and let the turtle wander from room to room, making special deliveries.

Raising a pet had challenges. Bill had to learn how to feed Mark properly. Turtle care was not something they covered at the University of Georgia.

At first Bill was feeding his turtle Ritz crackers and cheese. But then he started reading books, and he soon realized that turtles very rarely eat Ritz crackers in the wild.

So he started feeding Mark sardines and turtle pellets.

Time marched on. Mark became a major part of Bill’s everyday life. Bill even took Mark on long trips with him.

“I took Mark to Rhode Island once, Texas, California, and Quebec.”

The turtle became a fixture in Bill’s world. The animal witnessed a string of Bill’s failed romantic relationships. He was there for Bill’s first marriage, and for the birth of his two children. The turtle saw it all from his little aquarium, perched right there in the living room.

Bill’s children played with the turtle. They learned to feed him, they brought him to show and tell. He was the family mascot.

Mark watched Bill’s kids grow up and graduate high school. The turtle saw Mark endure the loss of a job, the death of a son. And the turtle was there when Bill’s spouse walked out on him after 23 years of marriage.

But all good stories must come to an end. And this one is no exception. As of yesterday, Bill’s dear friend, Mark, was found in his aquarium, unmoving. The turtle was standing against the corner of the aquarium, completely still.

“At first I thought he was brumating,” which is a process of hibernation for cold-blooded animals.

But it wasn’t that. Bill took the turtle to an expert, and the expert determined that the turtle was, in fact, dead.

And so, a few nights ago, in rural Georgia, a small family gathered around a tiny hole in Bill’s backyard. They buried a 32-year-old creature—who might have been even older. And Bill wept.

“Nobody is going to remember my friend Mark, unless I keep his memory alive. I was hoping you could do that for me.”

I’ll do the best I can, Bill.