“That’s not a turtle. That’s a dinosaur.”

This is what went through my head as I approached the stone-like reptile on the side of the road. Its tail was longer than I imagined, and it had bumps. A descendant of a triceratops or something.

Its face was different, too. Aha. A snapping turtle. I have absolutely no experience with snapping turtles.

Another lady saw our car with the flashers on and was stopping to see if everything was all right. “Oh, a turtle. Oh, you’re going to move it away from the road? That’s a good plan.”

Yeah, I’m going to try. But this dinosaur is a creature I don’t know how to handle. I picked it up on its sides, testing the neck range to see if I’d get snapped, and also checking how far those beastly half-inch claws could reach.

The turtle wriggled around. I shrieked and dropped my grip. I tried again. That sucker was heavy. And I was afraid. I screamed again when it reacted.

We were causing some traffic drama, and we couldn’t decide which side of the road would be best. Oh, and I was freaked out by the thing.

I like to think I’m not afraid of much, and I suppose it’s sometimes true. But the uncertain. That’s scary. Without knowing what this thing was capable of, I was unsure of how to handle it.

I got out two snow scrapers from my car and tried to pick it up with those. The turtle did NOT like that. It wigged out.

Then the other driver got out of her car. She came over and looked the turtle in the face. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’ve got to get you away from the road, that’s all.”

She went back to her car and got a large fleece jacket out of the back. She came around to the back of the turtle, picked her up, and walked her back down the hill to where it looked like a small creek ran.

I wish … I wish I wouldn’t have been afraid. But more than that, I wish I would have trusted my instincts. I assumed that the turtle was a female, crossing the road to lay eggs. I wish I would have suggested we move her to the other side of the road, because I knew she’d try to cross again.

And she did. About two hours later, she had made it three-quarters of the way across the first lane of the road and had been hit. We drove by slowly, got honked at. I gasped and covered my mouth. Her head was bleeding, and she was dead.

I wish we would have gone back with a shovel, dug a hole, carried her broken body to the earth. Instead, over the next several hours, her thick dinosaur shell was smashed, her insides smeared across asphalt.

I’m sorry.