"At first, he thought the soft hiss and thump was just his ears, anxiety, but it was a dishpan full of turtles, covered with a cage of chicken wire. One of them was on his back, tirelessly paddling his thick legs, trying to rock himself upright.
He walked past them, up another aisle, but couldn't ignore the sound. He walked back to the dishpan, looked to see that no one was watching, and knelt down. He couldn't reach the upside-down turtle through the wire with his fingers. The turtle was hard-eyed, like a hawk stripped of its wings and trapped - who knows why - in the dead weight of that shell, uncomplaining, heroic, Hanson thought.
He looked around again before trying to tip him over with a ballpoint pen, worried that sometone would think he was trying to torment the creature. He was about to give up when a pair of deformed feet wearing shower sandals stopped at the cage.
'You wante turle?'
Hanson smiled up at him, still a little lightheaded, the words making no sense.
'Turle. You want?'
Hanson nodded as if he understood, standing up. Then it came to him. 'Turtle. Right. I'll take that one,' he said, pointing to the one on its back. 'I'll get it in a minute,' he said. 'Be right back.'
Hell, he thought, walking up the aisle, I can put him out in the backyard. He smiled, wondering what Truman would think of a turtle.
When he took the cleaver to the cash register, the Vietnamese clerk put a package wrapped in butcher paper on the counter. 'Turle. Okay. Very good.'
Hanson thanked him, paid him, and dropped the package of turtle meat in a garbage can down the street."

Kent Anderson: Night Dogs