The box turtle is the Pauly Shore of reptiles.

After clutching his chest, James “Jimmy” Jameson fell to the ground hard, his face, especially his right cheek taking the brunt. If his heart hadn’t seized the way it did, he would probably be more focused on his shattered face. Priorities.

It was a “moment” for so many reasons; here are just a few. “Jimmy” had just gotten off the phone with his doctor. His test results were negative, in fact, his doctor’s exact words were, “Dude, you’re killing it. Keep up the good living.” No one in his family had ever gotten a clean bill of health. Yet they all managed to live into their nineties.

After receiving the brilliant news, “Jimmy” decided it would be a good time to officially renounce God. Why not? It’s what the youth were doing.

As “Jimmy” went through the denial stage, the forty-six-year-old pet turtle, Oldo, sidled beside his fallen body and said, “Please don’t die.” For the first time (Ever!), in their twenty-one year old relationship, their eyes locked.

“Jimmy”‘s eyes blinked rapidly, “If turtle wishes were dishes, we are destined to—“ He took a well-deserved pause before taking his last breath.