In November of 1878, long after it had been

In November of 1878, long after it had been thought lost at sea, the Turtle of the Baskervilles

, black resplendent turtle of fear, was found scratching around the body of some smarmy Baronet in a manicured garden outside a stuffy manor. The Turtle of the Baskervilles

at the prize-winning Orchid and dove to the bottom of the pond. The Turtle of the Baskervilles was a botanical serial killer. He'd killed more lilies than Stalin killed

fillies. So the fillies & the lillies emigrated to Siberia, which if you ask my coworkers, goes by a different name. I like flora & fauna, but forget it. The Turtle of Baskervilles

was just fillibustering vigilantly. He'd lull his victims with his stealthy rhyming prose and then wham! He'd strike. The Turtle of Baservilles had roamed the loamy bogs gloamily

when he saw the paw prints of a lawless hound. The Turtle of the Baskervilles sought the author of these monstrous imprints in a lonely inn on a tump on the blasted heath on a squa

lid wasteland. How he arrived at this inn is not important. What is important is that he discovered the lawless, feral hound lying in a corner, licking the remains of Sir Hugo's

hunting shotgun. As a hound, it had no opposable thumbs to wipe with a cloth. He got the canine to confess. 'Life in the wasteland,' the hound said, 'has been kind of... ruff.'

"Don't believe me," Said the hound. "Try living there for a week. Just a week and tell me, you wouldn't do the same." I pulled the shotgun away from his face and sat down to drink

a beer with him...and I listened, really listened. I changed that day. I changed forever. That's how my career with PETA began and how that hound became my best friend.