An email came in the other day. “Where do you get your ideas for books and columns?”

Dear Reader,

Thanks for reading my work, and I’m honored that you took the time to reach out. My work oftentimes comes from Reality.

For example, I’m sure I speak for us all when I tell you that a bite from turtles, tortoises, and maybe terrapins will lock that moment in our memories forever. It’s much like we remember where we were when some life-changing event occurred in our lives.

Here I’m talking about those women who were shot into the air in a tin can a few days ago to squeal and float around for a moment while they looked at the moon that I can clearly see several times a month from my own backyard, and with less capital outlay. Really, I don’t care that they went up and came down, because I really want to talk about dinosaurs and reptiles. The idea for today’s discussion came to mind when I saw a Reel the other day concerning an emergency room visit by a man with a live and apparently contented snapping turtle attached to his face.

We all know turtles are distant relatives of the dinosaur infestation that occurred 66 to 245 million years ago, as determined by dust-covered men covered who pause in sweeping rocks with small brushes to explain the past.

Personally, I like terrapins and tortoises, especially when they’re not attached to someone’s body parts. Case in point, we recently took the grand-critters to a miserably hot and windy event often called a Renaissance Festival, where fully grown adults dress up in period clothing (or mythical clothing they wish those people wore, including spiked shoulders, fairy wings, and elf ears) and walk around talking to each other in horribly bad medieval accents.

In the midst of all this wishful history that also involved the sale of modern pretzels on a stick, magic wands, padded swords people used to whack at each other in pretend stables, and stir-fry bowls, we came across a traditional Renaissance petting zoo.

But before that, there were several signs posted outside warning that no “weapons” were allowed. This included knives, and the pocket variety as well. However, once inside, if you carried in enough money, you could purchase a ten inch, razor sharp handmake knife in more than one location.

Anyway, once inside, we came to a petting zoo. After paying a small ransom for five kids to pet the kinfolk of animals they could have rubbed on when we had the Oklahoma ranch, they took up paper cups full of sliced apples (for an extra ducat, of course) and rushed around the artificial medieval pens made from T-posts zip-tied with cedar fence planks, feeding potbellied pigs, lambs, colts, calves, one miniature horse a couple of inches higher than said potbellied pig, and a tortoise the size of a number 5 washtub.

Having little experience with tortoises, their parents (my own offspring) neglected to explain how to the feed those reptiles and grandcritter Number 4 yelped. “It bit me!!!”

Sure enough, the black-eyed reptile’s beak (made of keratin) cracked Number 4’s fingernail (also made of keratin), resulting in some minor blood loss equivalent to one drop. But this kid has a rigor when he gets a splinter, and the sight of a mere speck of blood sends him into a full half hour of crying and terrified shrieking.

As we stanched the medieval wound, I told him about seeing the aforementioned Reel. For those who don’t have Facebook accounts, a Reel is a few seconds of video crack to which people have become addicted and spend hours watching one piece of idiocy after another, even though some of these little videos end before the “story” or “event” is completed, leaving the addict craving more.

In the one I related to my tearful grandson, there was a clip of an emergency room and a man seated in a wheelchair, who in turn clutched the body of an extremely large snapping turtle that had chomped down on his face and apparently wouldn’t let go.

Remembering the best advice I ever got from the Old Folks, “Snapping turtles latch on and won’t turn loose until it thunders,” I’ve always distanced myself from those things.

So these guys in the Reel, who took their friend to the ER, didn’t think of any way to remove the large reptile from said victim’s face before loading him into their vehicle and making the drive to get help.

I’m confident any relative or mine, or the Hunting Club members, would have known how to remove a turtle waiting for thunder.

However, these folks who enjoyed hugging, petting, or kissing them, likely had no experience with wild animals

I’ve seen people kiss snakes, too.

No.

What they also didn’t know, apparently, is that snapping turtles have extremely long and flexible necks. I have it on good authority, Wikipedia, that a snapper’s neck can be up to two-thirds the length of its shell and it has the jaw power to clip off a stray finger or two.

According to intense research which took up nearly 90 seconds of my life, I found that a study done in 2023 used some specific but undisclosed device that registered numbers showing the bite of a common, and not especially gifted snapper, registers between 62 and 564 Newtons of force in jaw strength. I don’t know who this Newton guy is, but he apparently has a strong bite.

As a public service, I did more research and learned the way to pick up a snapping turtle is to grasp the back end of its shell, as we now know two-thirds of the way back from its biting part, thereby ensuring your digits are beyond its reach.

Better yet, don’t pick it up.

So let’s review. Inexperienced people shouldn’t feed a dinosaur’s distant kin, don’t kiss, hug, or snuggle them, because they are reptiles and don’t get the same fuzzies from cuddling, and avoid Renaissance Festivals at all costs.

Oh, and if a turtle latches on to you and there’s no possibility of thunder in the near future, call me. I can tell you how to get it off before you head to the ER.

So thanks for your correspondence, and I hope you enjoy the snakes and reptiles in my upcoming novel, Comancheria. But they’re not based on any real truth or family lore, and I have to admit, I don’t know if horny toads (Texan for horned lizards) stutter or not.

And as one more public service, reptiles, to my knowledge, don’t communicate with bad medieval accents, either. I hope this helps those writers to seek assurance, inspiration, and advice from this blog post as well. You’re welcome.

Rev.