I would start smashing away, but quickly stop as I bruised my knuckles, unable to inflict so much as a scratch. Shuckle would then whip out an arm and smack at me as I rubbed my knuckles with all the force of a wet noodle. We'd sit like this for a few minutes before I would decide to take pity on the poor rock... turtle... thing, and I'd carefully pick him up and take him home.
Shuckle and I would slowly come to trust each other. I'd feed him berries and he'd hide them away in his shell. In time, he'd share the fermented juice with me. It would make great smoothies. As the years passed by, Shuckle would prove to be an excellent pet. He'd crawl all around the house and enjoy getting into tight, cramped spaces. We would be close friends for the rest of our lives.
One day though, I would begin to fall ill. I'd find myself weak and unable to muster the energy to leave bed. Shuckle would refuse to leave my side, resting by my bed and giving me his delicious fermented berry juice whenever a batch was ready. As I lay there, growing weaker, I would smile down at my best friend, and reach down to rest a hand on his shell. He'd stretch out a tentacle-like arm to close over my hand, and my eyes would slowly, finally close.
Shuckle would be very still. Eventually, he would realize that I wasn't going to wake up. Then, and only then, would he slowly leave my side, make his way up to the kitchen sink, and dump the rest of his toxic-laced berry juice down the drain.
Don't Fuckle.