I have really pissed off some lizardsBy Steve Estes
I may have to stop writing about the evil intentions of iguanas for a while.
You see, I think they’re learning to read.
And I don’t think they’re happy with me.
Let me tell you why I might get this impression. And let me also say that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
Three times last week I had run-ins with an iguana.
The first was outside the office. I was coming in from an errand and there was a bright green lizard on the deck.
Now, normally these little guys will turn tail and run when you get close, so I just figured this one would follow that pattern.
As I got closer, he didn’t move. (I assume he. Never learned to tell the difference actually.) It wasn’t until I actually stepped on to the deck about three feet form him that he decided to scoot off.
But instead of running off to the side of the deck as they normally do, this one scampered into the corner of the building.
As he tried to climb the wall, I walked on my way. When he couldn’t get a grip on the concrete facing of the building, he launched himself backwards from the corner. With just a little better aim, he would have hit me right in the crotch.
I know I turned three shades paler than I already am.
The very next day, I was leaving the office and spotted a darker green lizard in the walkway path leading to my car.
The path goes between the concrete building and a large bush. It’s about four-feet wide. The lizard was patrolling the opening like a sentry at the gate.
He crossed and re-crossed his path at least a dozen times while I was slowly navigating the pathway bricks, hoping he’d move before I had to try and shoo him off. I remembered too well the guy from the day before.
As I finally got to the point where it was yell at him or stop and wait, he turned and scooted off into the gravel. He swiped that tail so hard behind him that he spit rocks into the air. One of them caught me in the shin.
He was a little too quick for me to pick up a stone and hurl it back in retribution.
And then the very next day after that, I was standing outside under the canopy that covers the west side of our building talking to a client. I heard a scurrying noise.
I looked behind me. No movement.
I looked to the gravel. No movement.
I looked to the street. No movement.
The sound comes again. I looked up. There, on top of the canopy, outlined in shadow against the bright sun, was this small lizard trying to locate the exact spot on the canopy that put him over my head.
He wasn’t coming through. I had no idea of his intentions. I went back to my conversation.
I stepped just slightly toward the building to get into a little more shade.
A wet, brownish substance began to leak from the outside of the canopy.
The little reptilian throwback had relieved himself on the canopy over my head and the runoff was dripping over the side.
I have vowed to pick on lizards less this year.
You can’t make me change my mind.
They’re out there. And they’re angry. At me.