The stoic Mr. Stumptail




 

 

One Sunday while sweeping I came upon a lizard freshly nailed by a neighbor’s hubbahubba hotrod. Western fence lizards are low riders to begin with but this one was seriously scraping asphalt.

I nudged him with my dustbin. Some reflex action or flicker of life pulsed. Balancing his splayed form on the dustbin I noticed much of his tail was gone, likely caught in a tire’s tread. I lowered him into a bed of trailing vinca and wished him luck.

Next hour he was back splayed in the same place in the roadway. We repeated this ritual several times, me trying to rescue a suicidal lizard. Then dawned the realization he may have been in shock or—can victims as small as a lizard suffer concussion?

At dusk I heard the rumble of the returning hotrod. A more successful lizard intervention was needed, so the next relocation was into my succulent garden, where he slid off the dustbin-gurney to rest in a planting of soft blue echeveria.

For several days more he could be found revisiting the accident site, perhaps intent on being reunited with his lost hunk of tail. Peeved by his recklessness I called him a fatalistic jerk while repeatedly stretchering him to a safer place. In the roadway he was not only a target for further hit-and-run mayhem and feline felons but also for crows in our area, who love to feast on roadkill.

Eventually he began making appearances around my garden. When a horny black growth formed where his missing appendage had been, he became Mr. Stumptail, very easy to recognize. He’d hover with that saurian stillness and patience, appearing to watch me at my chores. I worried the scrub jays shredding my plum crop might pick him off. But his faculties were fully operational by then; he was sharp and quick and stayed safe, though he, like me, occasionally got clobbered by a gooey pit.

In the fall Mr. Stumptail took up an exercise regimen. I found him doing sets of some impressive pushups. Aha, little did I know this was a Lothario Lizard tactic to woo the girlies. I hope he found a satisfactory wife and they raised good kids who respected their courageous old man.

The following spring I excitedly welcomed Mr. Stumptail back as I rebuilt my frost-vanquished garden. I loved his silent saurian solicitude. Then I didn’t see him for a long time and forgot about him until I moved a large flower pot. As I picked it up there was Mr. Stumptail’s corpse, his injured tail’s horny black growth unmistakable. I gasped, then mourned.

Humans can be such bums and ingrates, but do a lizard a favor and he’s your brother for as many balmy seasons as his species is granted.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *