I wasn’t taking notes, can’t recall whether is was cloudy or clear, dry or wet, but do remember well how it all unfolded.

I was down at Sunken Meadow, walking the dog, spring sprung, observing trees and buds and ferns and skunk cabbage and whatever else interested me, even watched bluebirds, a male and a female, perched like Christmas-tree crowns atop young, adjacent pines as I enjoyed the day and a robust, snappy walk around the perimeter.

About halfway around my loop, on the south end of the field where a beaver pond spills out into the edge of the meadow, I noticed Buddy acting curious and cautious, nose high, ears alert, looking down at something just outside of the greening tangle of multiflora rose along the border. Whatever it was, he respected it, or at least wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, thus the timid approach. He semi-circled but wouldn’t move in as I quickened my step.

When I got to within an underhand toss, I could see what looked like a rock or bag or maybe a chunk of wood in the low, sparse, brown brush. Exactly what it was I could not decipher. Then, when I got closer, I could see we were dealing with a large snapping turtle, as round as my arms spread out to the max and joined at the hands out in front of my torso, definitely nothing to pester. The big, prehistoric critter wasn’t shy, either. No sir. It was standing rigid on all fours in an obvious aggressive pose, tail, head and neck straight out like a German shorthair on point, only ornerier.

I believe it was Buddy’s first encounter with a snapping turtle, and instinct wisely kept him away. The turtle must have smelled dangerous, which, if so, was a good thing, according to a friend I later told about the standoff. “A big snapper could do a job on a dog,” he informed me. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know.

“Leave it,” I said to Buddy in a non-threatening tone, and he seemed almost relieved as he left it and continued on his merry way, trotting joyfully to the west bank of the Green River, not once turning back or even suggesting it. He must have been happy to be done with the armored beast after accurately reading its unfriendly body language, if not dangerous scent, not alluring pheromones by any stretch of the imagination.

My guess is that it was a female snapper looking for a place to bury its eggs, but I haven’t spent any time researching it. It may be a little early for turtle egg-laying. Maybe not. I really don’t know. But something was going on, and apparently that snapper wasn’t the only one out and about that day. I made that discovery the next morning while walking the same meadow and happening upon two friendly fellas grinding Christmas-tree stumps 100 yards from where I had seen the pugnacious turtle. When I stopped to chat and, pointing, shared the story with them, the taller of the two was interested. The previous day, maybe 300 yards west of where my turtle had stood, he had seen another large snapper crossing the paved road. A woman was on the scene, her car parked side of the road as she directed traffic to protect the turtle. She stuck around until the creature crossed the road, then drove off. Later that day, apparently trying to return to the beaver pond it had exited, the turtle was killed by a car, presumably minus the eggs it had laid in the sandy brook-side soil off the east side of the road.

In the weeks to come, many little turtles will probably hatch from that secluded site to replace their dead mother, which never made it home to her beaver pond, likely sparing at least a few of the goslings soon to hatch from a visible Canada goose nest atop a beaver hut. Fishermen tell of watching newborn goslings swim behind their mother and seeing one or two disappear like bobbers on a fish strike when quickly pulled under and devoured by hungry snapping turtles.

Nature’s way: life and death in a bottomland beaver bog, always wildlife rich.