Woody was a North American Wood turtle, a protected species. We got him from a breeder in Florida. He had to change planes in Atlanta, and eventually made it to O’Hare. When the Husband went to pick him up, the guy at the dock wouldn’t let him go get the container, saying “We don’t allow no live reptiles up here.” When the Husband got home, before we opened the box, he took my hand and said “Now, I don’t want you to be upset if this turtle didn’t make it.” After I assured him I’d be ok, we opened the big styrofoam box. Inside was a little container, the sort you’d get an Egg McMuffin in. The second we opened that one, he scooted out and scurried across the floor. He was the size of a quarter, and his first water bowl was a 1/4 cup measuring cup. We had him for 17 years. RIP, Woody. You were a terrific turtle, a tribute to the name.