Jan/10
04

Last night I posted the saga of the early life and times of Taco the Gecko and this morning I wake up to an email from one of my favorite bloggers on the planet, the author of Boy Out Of Context . Her blog started a way to work through the process of realizing, then officially diagnosing her oldest child’s autism. As he’s gotten a little older and is doing well in school and getting, it seems, good care, she’s started writing more about being a vet.

And it’s hilarious. Hilarious!

This morning I woke to this:

Deep breaths.

There’s a huge difference between “can live” and “will live” and lizards are notoriously hard to keep alive in captivity. All the best hopes for little Taco and all, but you’re realistically not looking at 20 years.

Ironically, one of our assistants told me this sad yet hilarious story of the time they rescued a lizard from starvation. They also rescue cats. The lizard…didn’t make it, although it’s not clear if the cats managed the cage top or if his wife left it slightly ajar.

That’s not a recommendation, by the way, but it was the first thing I thought of when I read your post.

What Christine does not understand is that the second an animal crosses the Square threshold I develop a slavish devotion that borders on the psychotic.

This psychotic behavior includes but is not limited to:

  • Obsessive research into the well-being of gecko
  • New, better, “moisture bowls” arriving from overseas gecko enthusiast sites
  • Organic gecko treats being purchased at the grocery store
  • On cold nights waking up in the middle of the night, worried that Taco is not warm enough, and sneaking into the room and put my hand on the tank to make sure the heat is on

And then, when the time comes for him to pass into the Great Lizard Hereafter, I will be the one standing on the beach, weeping uncontrollably, wrapping him in my favorite cashmere sweater, and placing him into a paper boat that I will light afire and set to sea…. because that is how heroes leave this world .

He’s growing on me.

Yours,
Annie