In the spring of 1960, I was riding with my dad on his milk route.
He spotted a small turtle crossing the road, stopped to pick it up, and put in the glove compartment.
He told me not to play with it until we got home.
Of course, when he got back to the truck at our subsequent stop to pick up milk cans, I was crying over a fresh bite on my finger.
The moral of the story: It’s wise to follow instructions. And if you are going to poke something, use a stick instead of your finger.
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Source : https://www.rd.com/true-stories/inspiring/short-stories-about-dads/