Last year, a pair of my wife’s shoes went missing from our carport. I grew up in the Midwest, so I feel like I should explain what a carport is. I mean, I didn’t really know what one was before moving down to Georgia, but it didn’t shake my very foundation when I first spotted one. OK. It was a little unsettling, I’ll admit. Anyway, I’m not trying to suggest that you guys don’t know what one is. Or that you couldn’t use Google Image Search to quickly dial yourselves up a visual. But I want this blog to be like a pile of comfy cushions resting atop a padded carpet – something that you can just plop onto without having to worry about the unforgiving concrete barking under your butts.

So, anyway, a carport is a garage without a garage door. It’s just an open area to slide a car into. They work out all right because cars aren’t prone to rust attacks down here. However, they do leave your car(s) and other carport innards exposed to passersby. And assholesby. Like the typical garage, our carport is semi-cluttered. There’s an old, non-working lawnmower that sits silently against the back wall. Dead leaves and various car fluid stains cover the floor. And our two raccoon-damaged garbage cans are huddled together, as if they are anticipating the next animal clawing. Until recently there was a row of shoes pressed up against one of the carport’s walls. I think there were eight pairs or so – sneakers, old beat up shoes demoted to yard work usage, unloved shoes, clippings of the old comic strip Shoe (I wish), horseshoes (I wish wish!).

I’m setting the scene of the crime here, but I’m probably being too detailed. So let me get to the point.

Oh, and there are some recycling bins in the carport too. And a bird's nest.

Anyway, a year ago, a pair of my wife’s shoes went missing from the shoe row. They were a pair of just purchased running shoes. We figured that maybe she just misplaced them. Or they were lost within the confines of our small house. We thought they’d turn up at some point, but they never did. In the meantime, she just substituted and older pair for jogging purposes and the world continued to spin on its creaky axis.

A few weeks ago, my wife decided that the beat up pair had run its last suburban street and it was time to buy another set of sneakers. She settled on some trail running shoes - which sounds pretentious typing it out, but those things are great. We’ve been hitting some trails around Atlanta on the weekends, and - if you bite into the marketing - you need a little sturdier of sole. I’m typing this because now they are gone - stolen from our garage without a garage door! Another pair of her kicks, a yard pair, were pinched as well.

But here’s the thing – that original pair that we thought lost (within our house)? That pair was returned. The thief brought them back. Here’s the picture of the sneakers that the sneaker returned:

Actual size.

So, this person uses us like a Blockbuster for shoes, I guess. (By the way, are my shoes shit? They remained undisturbed during both crimes.) I’ll admit that I was amused at first. The carport was cruelly invaded, our personal space breached, but at least the shoe thief was kind enough to return the original pair, right? Then I realized what happened. The burglar, while we were at work, scuttled up to our house via our immaculate driveway:

Actual size.

The shoes on my feet sadly look on as the other shoes bond.

As I took the above picture, I felt eyes on the back of my neck. I whipped around to see that my wife had positioned this little guy (a gift from a coworker) on a chair to watch over the shoe bin. A stuffed guardian. A symbolic gesture, but it made me feel happy and comforted. Here he is, overlooking the bin like a lifeguard overlooking the perilous waters. Also like a lifeguard, he seems to be sleeping:

I named him Green Dan.

On my way to work the other day, I spotted a turtle in the middle of the road. That’s a weird, unexpected sight - like seeing a peacock on your way home from work, which also happened to me a while back. Maybe my car spits out some kind of Dr. Doolittle-vibe or something. If so, that’s some special feature that was included, care of dealer oversight. I bought my station wagon as bare bones as possible. My in-dash cassette deck stands as a rock-solid testament to this fact.

Anyway, I had basically made it to work when I saw the turtle. The shelled gentleman was smack in the middle of the second to last corporate road I navigate before leaping from my car and sprinting into work to quickly begin a glorious workday. The street the turtle was crossing typically isn’t very busy - but still, what is he? Crazy? I drove past him, instantly felt guilt settle in, and decided to turn my heap-on-wheels around. Now, it would have been pretty exciting to perform one of those screeching turns you see expertly executed in old 70s cop shows. Or even some kind of balletic turn, like the car was on a lazy Susan. I wish I could brag about accomplishing either kind, but my turnaround was pretty long-winded. Picture the blog you are currently reading as a car turning, and you should have some idea.

By the time I got back to the turtle, he had backtracked. He was at the side of the road, and his shell was up against this fairly tall curb that he had no possible way of climbing. And, I guess knowing this - that somehow his decision-making skills had let him down - he had emptied his bladder in terror. He looked like a tossed, green water balloon. This, of course, broke my heart. I mean, I was already gearing up to rescue him, but now it was imperative. The tiny pool of piss he was standing in underscored the fact that my instincts had indeed been correct on this one. This was not some devil-may-care critter crossing the road like some reptilian badass who couldn’t give a shit about what lay in wait for him beyond his comfy habitat. You know, like this guy:

From my personal collection. It’s a double, if anyone wants to trade.

This was a turtle that, like so many of us have done, simply made a bad life choice.

So, I got out of my car and headed towards the little guy who, as I got closer, didn’t look so little, really. He was mid-sized to kind of large. And he looked pretty weathered and old. Plus, he was cornered – not so much by any obstacles (aside from the curb), but by his galaxy-given slowness and his next to nothing reflexes. Surrounded by his own urine, all his faults in relief, I cautiously approached him. Yep. Cautiously. I mean, with all of these little details rolling around in my mind (old, cornered, large, alive), I’ll sadly admit that I started to get a little nervous. I thought, “Don’t some turtles bite? Snapping turtles, right? What does that snapping part mean?” “What if it attacked?” I’m thinking. “Do turtles hiss?” – hearing any animal hiss always gets to me. And then, a flash - what if someone saw me running from a hissing, pissing turtle? Cell phone video begets YouTube begets plastic surgery to change my face. In summary, this was not a proud moment for either of us.

This is kind of what he looked like, but even more frightening.

Eventually, my heart won out. I swallowed my sad fear and I grabbed the old guy with two hands…like I was grabbing a big sandwich or a dictionary. Of course, I made sure to keep his possibly-dangerous head full of possibly-sharp turtle fangs pointed away from my body. As soon as I put my hands on the guy, he tucked in. Which, I’ll admit, was exactly what I was gambling on. He went indoors. He hermited up. I wanted to hug the guy.

As I carried the turtle away from the street and over the curb (which I managed in one step, thank you), I felt a bond form between us. Me and him, united inside this gaggle of boring corporate buildings, headed towards a man-made lake. And, I sympathized with him. Because, honestly, the lake didn’t look great. It looked small – to me, at least. Confining. And this turtle, maybe he was sick of the same old. Or maybe there were troubles at home or something. Maybe he was fleeing a bad relationship. Or maybe even some kind of predator or turtle bully was on the loose down there. And maybe this (currently) tucked-in reptile decided to pick up sticks and strike out on his lonesome. Take his chances on the new, the unknown. Maybe he pictured a world full of lakes - better lakes, bigger, cleaner lakes. A clean start. A starched shirt. A warm rock, baked to perfection by the sun’s rays, to lean his tired shell against. And then, I mean, it must have taken him a long time to get to the road on those little radish legs. Hours into the journey, exhausted, reality set in that he might as well be in fucking outer space. It must have been like living a waking nightmare. Sounds up close that he’d only ever heard at a distance while lounging on a pitiful micro-beach that surrounds the lake’s waters. Strange objects, way beyond his understanding, quickly attaching themselves to those sounds. The world like a fucking maze of regrets. Every single thing programmed to end his life. It must have been the single worst experience of his entire existence.

So, to cheer him up, since I was holding him like a sandwich, I pretended to take a bite. And he giggled.