When I was nine years old, I went camping at a lake with my father. My parents had just split and were finishing up a divorce, so this was a family event for just my dad and I. (This will be important later.)

I made a friend at the lake that weekend, and we decided to dig a "mote" all along the beach. This huge hole ended up stretching probably about 20 ft along the shoreline, and as a boat would go by, the wake would flood water into it. Well, at one point, I noticed something moving down at the far end of the mote. I walked down to find a baby box turtle (about this size) struggling to find his way out. I scooped him up and put him in a clear plastic cup.

I decided I was going to keep Kermit. I put mud and twigs and grass in his cup. I found small gnats and placed them in there just in case. My father and I had no idea what he ate, but I figured I'd look it up when I got home. I woke up all night long to check on him and make sure he was okay. The next day, we headed home. I kept Kermit in my lap the whole ride...

Until I called my mother and asked if I could bring him home. She refused, saying he would die in captivity and he carried diseases. I was heartbroken. I cried like a great big baby.

We stopped by a small stream to let him go. He crawled right out and went on his way.

I like to think my Kermit survived that day, and lived a long and happy life. While the odds were against that little reptile, I have to believe he made it. He was my first pet, and I loved him.

That is all.