The amazing lightning-bolt-brilliant woman I married is an animal lover. The amazing lightning-bolt-brilliant man she married is an animal lover too.
We started our life together three years ago with no animals of our own, but with a vague, shared certainty that one day an animal, a dog in particular, would be joining the family.
We were cured of the idea of instantly adopting a dog as newlyweds when our similarly newly-wedded friends bought Buster the Puppy. He played havoc with their busy schedules, broke things in their apartment while they worked, limited numerous newlywed freedoms, and came over one day to our house to pee on our duvet, the crown jewel of our wedding gifts.
Buster was soon adopted out to a lovely family who were ready for a good dog; Our friends were chastened- they'll wait a few more years before their next pet; We learned a valuable lesson- no animals till you're settled.
It's a few anniversaries and two apartments later. We move back downtown, a house of our own, all the space we need, no more apartment. Room for kids (one day), a dog (one day)- we're finally in a place we can settle. We feel settled. We are settling.
I'm wandering the new neighbourhood one night a couple weeks ago- checking it out- and I suddenly walk by a window full of lizards.
and I mean full of lizards.
I'm transfixed. I stare for twenty minutes. So many lizards.
I mention it to friends of ours over dinner later, and the normally docile Trent lights up, excited. He passed the same window a week ago. He rang the bell. He went inside. He saw baby chameleons the size of your thumbnail, and other reptilian marvels. My wife and I trade a few casual comments about the purely hypothetical not-disgustingness of personal lizard ownership, nothing more.
It is my day off, a few days later. I have no plans for the day. I wander to the bakery for coffee and an egg tart. The lizard window is across the street. I wander over. The keeper of the lizard window is having a smoke on the sidewalk. I say hello, strike up a casual conversation. The conversation quickly becomes intensely and only a conversation on the subject of lizards. A tour ensues, with several creatures laid across my hand, or on my shoulder. Something that looks like an alligator repeatedly tastes my ear with his tongue.
Then I meet the baby chameleons, little green monkeys with stick legs and telescope eyes swivelling around the room, bigger now than what Trent described. They are the length of a finger, bright green. I'm a little charmed: they are tiny, they are cute, they have that magic thing that all baby animals have, even ones that are going to grow up into butt-ugly maniacs. One of the little guys is placed carefully on my hand . I don't know at that moment what an honour this is- these are shy beasties, even when they are young. The little gaffer makes his way to the top of my head.
It's Tom that does it to me though. I spot him on the other side of the room, climbing around inside a six foot tall mesh cylinder filled with tree. Tom is a grown-up chameleon. He looks like someone stuck legs on a big, flat fish and then spraypainted it with a half dozen neon colours. I have never seen anything like this thing. He doesn't seem like he could be the same animal as the little green thing I just had crawling up my arm. I have never seen a lizard like this, blazing in colour like he's been graffitied. I can't stop grinning.
My conversation with the Lizard Guy turns serious. I start asking questions. He starts sizing me up, evaluating my sincerity. I look at other creatures. I watch Tom eat, prime-time nature-channel fabulous. Three hours later, and the Lizard Man is holding the door for me as I leave. I have a giant cage clutched to my chest, and a plastic bag full of strange paraphenalia hanging from one hand. In my backpack there is a baby chameleon.
A baby chameleon is not a Dog.
I'm trying not to think about it, but in my backpack there is also a big box, rustling with crickets.
When my wife comes home from work that night, I'm in the front hallway with the little gaffer perched on my arm. She loves him. I muse that perhaps I ought to have checked with her first.
He stays the night on our coffee table in the Living Room. We take him out of his cage two or three more times. We are gentle, careful. We pride ourselves on our responsible animal handling skills. We have no idea how much stress we are putting him through, over-handling him so soon after the terrors of The Move. He crawls across our friend Leah's sleeve and suddenly produces little black spots all over his sides, signs we can't read and don't understand about how he's feeling. We return him to his cage and he sits under his heat lamp, sulking and hating us and our big pink, grabbing hands.
At midnight I turn out his little lights and and move his cage to a quiet room. The little gaffer sleeps.
And this, by the way, has been the story of How NOT To Buy A Lizard. We've already made a few big mistakes.
But no worries, he's going to be really happy here.
So long as I don't accidentally kill him.
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