Stephie Smith never dreamed of becoming a writer until a series of her humorous essays about family were published behind her back. Unlike most things done behind her back, this one she actually liked.
And now she writes.
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Tag Archives: lizards
I guess I’m raising serial killers. Don’t they say serial killers start out by torturing small animals?
Okay, so I’m talking about my cats, and the small animals are lizards, snakes, butterflies and frogs. That doesn’t make it any less painful—for me anyway. I know it’s all part of nature—this hunting instinct—and I know my cats think they are doing not only a good thing, but something they should receive super kudos for. But I just can’t hand those out. Instead I scream, “Joey, NO! Back off!” and Joey (my orange tabby) backs off, looking confused.
I took the day off from work so I could clean the house, something that I hate more than anything else, and so, of course, I immediately went shopping. Not for clothes or shoes. (I evidently was not born with that gene.) I went shopping and bought tile grout sealer so I could seal the grout on my new, beautiful tile on my new, beautiful back porch, and I bought some weird rachet screwdriver that stores all the different types of attachments inside its see-through handle—which will only come in handy if I actually put them back into the see-through handle, which may or may not happen. And then I came home to clean the house.
I’ve been home 45 minutes and I’ve already rescued 3 lizards. Sometimes I hear the bell on the collar of one of my cats jingling away like mad and I hear the cat sliding across the floor, leaping into the air and landing with a thud, and other such noises that are unusual when a cat is alone. That alerts me to the fact that something is going on. Sometimes I just get to a room to clean, and find the lizard then.
I never liked lizards. Well, that’s not really true. I was always afraid of them, and of anything else that moves quickly, sometimes straight at me. But a strange thing has happened. The lizards are no longer afraid of me and when I put my hand down to pick them up, they actually come to me. Yesterday when I rescued one and tried to put him on a tree, he refused to go. He ran up my arm toward my neck, scaring the heck out of me. It took me a few minutes to convince him to leave. Meanwhile, the neighbors were watching me talk to him, most likely thinking I’m a nut.
I think I am a nut. I’m raising serial killers, after all, and rescuing all their victims. What could be nuttier than that?