This past weekend we spent the day with A.J. and her family down at their ranch. Late Saturday afternoon, A.J.’s daddy found a tortoise and brought it back to the house to show Caroline.
And, like she does with all God’s creatures, she almost loved that poor tortoise to death.
I think the dog was waiting for a golden opportunity in the form of a dropped tortoise.
Shortly after I took this picture, she asked me if I’d like to hold her tortoise, whom she named Becky.
Yes. Yes I would love to hold that tortoise as soon as I find a butter knife so that I can saw my hands off after I finish touching it.
We spent the better part of thirty minutes watching Becky try to plot an escape route off the porch, but tortoise security was tight.
Then Becky came up with a brilliant plan. She pooped.
Not just any poop, but some kind of disgusting alien tortoise poop.
From that moment on, Becky was dead to Caroline.
And good riddance, I say, because I was a little afraid that we had found ourselves a new pet.
I prefer my pets without any type of shell. Or amphibious tendencies.
Fortunately, Caroline and P found a good way to pass the rest of the afternoon.
It’s a scene I imagined so many times as I folded all those precious pink dresses and dreamed of all the baby girl sweetness that life with a daughter would bring.