I may as well be blunt about it: Grimm died on Friday.
It still grieves me.
He’d looked like he was getting better. He wasn’t gasping as much, he’d started eating on his own. In fact, the day before he’d died, he’d eaten all the red worms out of the food I normally give them. It seemed like such a good sign.
But then the next day, I left the room to make lunch and when I came back, Grimm was floating lifeless in the water. His head was down, his legs were limp. My heart stopped. I picked him up and he managed to blink his eyes open, so I’d thought, He’s alive! There’s still hope!
I’d read how to give a turtle CPR, so I did that. I tried to make sure there wasn’t any water in his lungs and then I laid him out on his belly, stretched his neck out, and pushed his front arms in and out to help him breathe. It wasn’t helping. So, I set him on his basking spot and hoped that if he dried out a little bit, he’d come back to me.
Minutes later, he was dead. And man, did I cry. It’s still hard for me to write this. I feel so bad for him. I’d promised him I would make him better, but even though I did everything I could — two doses of antibiotics every day for nearly two weeks, a warm basking spot, lots of quiet, good food — it just wasn’t enough.
For that, my little turtle, I am sorry. I tried. My one consolation is that at least you’re not suffering anymore, and that’s a good thing.
So, this is it. Goodbye, Grimm. You’ll be missed.
In which Bones is a Turtle 