A young boy named Donny sits by the pond, staring at his lifeless pet turtle, the one that he had named Democracy. The turtle’s legs and head are nowhere to be found. There is just the colorful shell of Democracy.

Donny is inconsolable. He is bereft. The tears are rolling down his cheeks in waves.

His mother comes out and tries to comfort him but he wants none of it. Nothing she says reaches him through the heavy veil of grief.

“He’s dead. He’s dead,” he repeats over and over.

She calls their neighbor and friend, a psychiatrist, but nothing the man says can calms the boy.

“He’s dead. He’s dead,” he repeats over and over.

Finally, the father, Elon, returns home and takes the boy for a ride in his Tesla.

“We will have a wonderful funeral for Democracy. The best funeral. It will be like no other funeral in history. Perhaps the most amazing funeral ever. You can invite your best friends to attend.

“And when the funeral is over, we will have a feast in Democracy’s honor with all your favorite foods and the best cake and ice cream.”

“Really? Cake and ice cream?” asks Donny.

“Absolutely,” says Elon.

“And finally, we will bury Democracy out on the lawn, just below your bedroom window.  I will carve a beautiful and expensive tombstone for Democracy and put a little light on it. Whenever you want, you can turn the light on and off from a switch I will install next to your bed.”

The more Elon talked and promised, the better his son, Donny, began to feel. His eyes widened with each promise made by the father until they were like saucers. By the time they returned home Donny was on board.

So the two walked out to the pond, hand in hand, to begin making preparations for the burial of Democracy. In his head, Donny was drawing up a list of all the friends he would invite to the party.

Only, Democracy wasn’t dead.

The turtle was swimming around, as happy as can be. He had all his legs. He had his head, certainly, and he was chasing little tiny fish for supper.

Elon and little Donny just stood there, staring at the turtle. Wordless. Eyes wide. Jaws dropped.

Democracy was as healthy as ever.

Finally, quietly, Donny looked up to his dad with an expressionless face.

“Let’s kill it,” he said.

(I owe you one, James Thurber. The great humorist tells a version of this story in the introduction to “Collected Fables.” In fact, in one version of this story read on the radio, Bing Crosby was the voice of the father.)

The image above is generated by Artificial Intelligence.