Last night there was a torrential spring rain in the Greenbrier Valley. It splattered our tin roof all night long, spurring dreams of flash floods and various other means of drowning. On my way to work in the morning, splashing through the runoff while tossing a half dozen bluegills back into Price Run, I came across a turtle with it's back to the current at the side of Judyville Road.
At less than a foot long, it was small enough that I started to reach to help it back into the channel. In a nick of time, I saw the massive head and neck tucked into the front of an algae-coated shell. This was no meek water turtle or wayward terrapin.
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Sexual dimorphism exists among many animals, and the turtles display an odd dichotomous version. Among the terrapins or land turtles males are usually larger than females of the same age. Not only do those poor guys have to fight for the right to mate, they then have to wrestle to do the deed with a reluctant bride-to-be.
Water-living turtles, on the other hand (or whatever appendage), have a more free flowing sexual experience. A lady-in-waiting lounges on a silty cushion while her paramours engage in a watery dance above her. When a guy's combination of colors and movements strike her fancy, she turns tail but doesn't run. The nimble Chippendale who succeeds is usually smaller than the object of his affectations.
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I'm happy to report that the stream had subsided on my walk home from work. There in the muddy trail of my snappy new friend's path over to a pond is three-quarters of a bluegill, it's head chomped off instead of my careless hand. In an emerging world of water, it's probably best for all of us guys to be like him and go with the flow.
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