A short-lived life for a lizard
When two long-tailed lizards equal one black cat, it sounds like
an introduction to elementary school fractions. In our house, it’s
par for the course.
The Husband took The Boy to a local pet store last weekend,
because every boy should have a lizard.
A short-lived life for a lizard
When two long-tailed lizards equal one black cat, it sounds like an introduction to elementary school fractions. In our house, it’s par for the course.
The Husband took The Boy to a local pet store last weekend, because every boy should have a lizard.
I was okay with the idea until I learned that this purchase required that we also feed it something that would hopefully be found on the bottom of The Husband’s work boot. By this, I mean crickets. These were canned, Del Monte style. Yes, I know they were already dead but anyone who knows me (and some who don’t, but have heard the screams) knows that bugs in the house (or outside) are a no-go for me. But it was too late. Long-tailed lizard number one had been purchased. He came complete with a terrarium, sand, heating pad, plastic shrubs and a rock formation made out of resin. The Boy named him Skeptasaur, after some animated Yu-Gi-Oh character.
I informed The Husband that I would be resigning my position as The Boy’s room steward and that he would now be taking over duties of bed making, linen changing, dusting and vacuuming. There were crickets in there.
The Husband, having disregarded my fear of anything that hops and/or flies was contrite and luckily for me, was willing to do just about anything.
Poor Skeptasaur only lasted about 36 hours before he met his demise.
You might think that I might be a little guiltily glad that this happened. I could be free to roam any room of my house, since there would be no more crickets. I wasn’t. I was sad. I was upset that we’d brought a living creature into our home, dependent on us for his care and comfort and he died in such a short time.
The Boy was a little more pragmatic, not having had time to develop an attachment. He and The Husband went to get a replacement. This time, they came back with twenty more dollars worth of stuff because apparently, they were ill informed about what this tropical reptile needed to survive. This included, to my horror, live crickets and food to feed this food, because these particular lizards “like the hunt.” Great. Those came with some sort of gelatinous substance that you had to give them to keep them alive long enough to feed to the lizard. We were also now armed with a water mister, because evidently, you need to “mist your lizard” eight times a day (no exaggeration and fun to say to The Husband with a wink and a knowing smile.) We were convinced this was the ticket.
The Boy was diligent about misting his new friend and even I took a turn to try to acquaint myself with reptile ownership, while wondering if The Husband could have possibly found anything more high-maintenance.
The next morning, awakening The Boy for school, it was a familiar sight. I misted Skeptasaur II anyway, hoping I was wrong and he was sleeping. Nope. Lizard number two. This time, I actually cried. Silly, I know, but that was two living things down and I was wondering if the back yard was going to resemble Stephen King’s Pet Cemetery before the week was out.
A call to the pet shop did illicit an apology but I was informed that the store had been hiring high school kids who still didn’t know all about the animals. I was angry that they were turning them out onto the floor anyway, without understanding the delicate nature of their inventory. How many other animals died because of this store’s incompetence to train their employees and apparent disregard for an animal’s life in the pursuit of the almighty dollar by employing kids on the cheap?
The Husband was just as upset, as after work, he packed it all up – terrarium, heating pad, canned and live crickets, gelatinous substance, cricket house, sand, resin rock, shrubs and Skeptasaur II and headed to the pet store. An hour later, he came back with an even exchange since all they could offer was a gift certificate. Something we know we can handle – but might get mad if we try to mist him eight times a day.
Every boy should have a cat.
