We awoke this morning to tears and anger. My five year-old son’s largest anole had died. The tears were for the anole. The anger was for the crickets who consummated their delicious revenge by eating the anole’s eyes out of their sockets. Rigid and weighing a fourth of his original self, I took him from the position of his last breath and walked him to the trash. The trash seems like such a low place to rest for a loved pet, but mistakes made are never repeated when it comes to pets and death.
My seven year-old daughter’s fish died a couple months ago. I decided to “plant” the fish in the garden. Having a “Green” wife and myself with Cherokee blood, this seemed like the most eco-friendly course of disposal. The thought of Cinderella, the Chinese Fighting Fish, pushing up a green pepper plant felt like a fitting end to a life trapped behind plexigas. Unfortunately, during a replanting of my garden due to torrential floods, my daughter found her once-buried fish. The mourning process is rather tedious (for an adult) the second time around. I’m thinking about how Lazarus’s family felt upon his second death and burial. Did they say, “Okay, Jesus is not around. I think it's safe."? or “I hope this is the last time we have to bury this guy.”?
One smaller anole remains. My son has been pining for a fire belly toad, so he’s not pulling very hard for the little lizard to survive much longer in a cage with a couple dozen crickets licking their chops. One lesson I hope he’s learned is that you need to keep those lower on the food chain happy (or fed) if you want them to respect you when you’re all dried up.
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