One day in 1933 my step-grandfather was driving in the desert. He saw a tortoise who had been run over in the road, and he stopped the car to see if the tortoise was alive. He was, but Harry didn’t think he would be for long. There was a big crack in his shell.
Harry took the tortoise to his home in Long Beach, thinking it would be a good thing to let the animal die in peace. Meanwhile, he fed him apricots, lettuce, and tomatoes. And the tortoise seemed to get stronger with every passing day. Eventually it became apparent that the tortoise was going to survive his trauma, so Harry gave him a name: Josephus, or Joe for short. Why he named him after the Roman historian, I have no idea. But when Harry took Joe to the zoo to find out more about him, he was told Joe was probably at least a hundred years old. So Josephus was an appropriate name!
After several decades, my parents took Joe in to live with them, so we started calling him Joe Porter, our surname. Joe is still alive; he could be somewhere around 170 years old. He has lived through the Civil War, two World Wars, major earthquakes, and he was run over at least twice. And now he has been blogged!