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Our house used to be filled with cats: a huge marbled orange cat with fullback shoulders, a goofy gray with subtle calico patches, a smudge-nosed black and white tabby with a penchant for guacamole, their unflappable tortoise-shell mother, and their petite, half-Siamese ball-of-fire stepsister. They provided more entertainment and more laughter than any number of television programs or books could have, with their constant mischief and sometimes bizarre habits.
They're all gone now. The tabby that died in August was the last to leave us. It is lonely around here without them. And quiet. There is also the matter of the bun -- what we called our resident wild rabbit that lived in our yard for over a year and ate carrots, corn and seeds from a cherub bird feeder. He (or she -- we never figured out which it was) is gone, too. We don't know if he died or just moved on to a better home.
It isn't as if we are alone, though. Dozens of squirrels scuttle across our roof, chase each other around the pine trees, and make clumsy leaps from the gutters to the bird feeders. There are a couple of dozen species of birds that have lived here at one time or another, and our most recent inhabitants are a broad-winged hawk and a Little Blue heron. Any day now, the goldfinches will arrive. A deer comes through late at night, an occasional opossum drops by, and sometimes -- around midnight -- I see a raccoon's mask pressed up against the French doors of our bedroom.
There are snakes, too. Some colorful, and some that blend in so perfectly with our drip irrigation system that it is hard to tell what is a hose and what is a reptile. Frogs are abundant and like to live inside our compost tumblers. Spiders and ladybugs are everywhere, and every once in a while a box turtle passes through to munch on the wild mushrooms that dot our wet landscape. Last spring, a huge turtle arrived, dug a nest with her mighty back feet, laid her eggs, and then spent the rest of the afternoon on our porch.
The lizards especially interest me. We have countless geckos and chameleons, some little translucent lizards, and lizards with beautiful blue stripes on their backs. There's nothing unusual about that, of course, except that some have decided to move into our house.
When the cats were younger and in good health, a lizard didn't stand much chance of surviving if it entered the house. Many a time, I ran from room to room, yelling to the cats, " Drop that lizard!" in an attempt to save a reptilian life. But as the cats either died or became infirm, the lizards grew bolder. Now I have to sneak up and drop cardboard boxes on the indoor lizards, then drag the boxed lizards out to the yard where I let them go.
Several months ago, when our tabby was still alive, but confined to her bed, I noticed that a chameleon had moved into the little jungle corner by the French doors in the living room. When it jumped onto the scheffelera, it turned green, and when it sunned itself on one of the door ledges, it became brown.
Sometimes the chameleon became adventurous and moved to the other set of French doors by way of a rubber plant. My husband and I took to greeting it when we saw it, and it appeared that the lizard was used to our presence, though it showed no particular affinity for us.
Our master bathroom is a haven for water bugs that come out late at night to march around the bathroom rug. Suddenly, one week, I noticed they had disappeared. Later, I saw a small, pinkish gummy-worm lizard peeking at me from the toilet base. It was there the next night, too, and the next. It lived there for several weeks, dining on a banquet of water bugs and scurrying away when one of us entered the bathroom. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone, and we had water bugs again.
The French door chameleon is still around, and has been joined by the most interesting guest of all -- the lizard who lives on my teacart. We have a sunroom with a bay window garden, a spreading dracaena, a turtle fountain, and a two-tiered Victorian teacart brimming with African violets. During the winter, Christmas cactus and amaryllis blooms join the year-round plants and the reproduction Victorian plant misters on the bay window sills.
It is, in other words, an exceptional environment for the right tenant: plenty of greenery, beautiful flowers, a constant source of water, and a serene view of a stand of sword ferns and --depending on the season --azaleas, camellias and narcissus. Lizards, as it turns out, need a lot of bright light, so the plant lights on the cart do double duty as a kind of lizard tanning salon.
The teacart lizard, smaller than the French door lizard, has a medium brown stripe down its back. I didn't think it was a chameleon, but one day, after lingering on a pothos leaf, it turned green. Apparently, chameleons come in different shades and sizes. I have not been able to identify all of our reptile residents, but I hope to do so. For now, " teacart chameleon" and " French door chameleon" will have to do.
The teacart chameleon seems to be getting used to me. This morning, it passed me as I was sweeping the sunroom floor, and climbed onto the pot of a spent amaryllis. From there, it moved to the top of the cart and stared at me as I greeted it. A half-hour later, as I carried my tea out of the kitchen, it jumped from the fountain back onto the cart. Only once have I been lucky enough to see it drink from the fountain, and I never have seen it eating anything, but something certainly sustains it. There is no shortage of bugs in our house, so I'm not worried about the lizard's diet.
We imagine that a lizard choosing to live on a Victorian teacart, in Victorian surroundings, is some lizard indeed. When we can't see it, we imagine it has a secret life involving a tiny silver tea service and little pastries. We haven't named the lizard, but it's only a matter of time. Ours is a house of creatures, and the teacart and French door chameleons have honored us by making it their home, too.
Bio:
Diane E. Dees, a psychotherapist and writer in Covington, Louisiana, is a regular contributor to Moondance. Her short stories, essays and creative nonfiction have appeared in many publications. Diane and her husband, Orvin Tobiason, are the webmasters of princesscafe.com, the world's only virtual rock and roll restaurant. Diane's blog can be read at dedspace.blogspot.com.
You can email Diane at dianedees@charter.net.
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