This is lizard shit

Before we begin, please do not be fooled by the natural glorified beauty of the lizard featured at the top of this post. The lizard I will be talking about is as horrific as its intentions. Beware.

One of the things I like to do the most every night when I come home from work is to pick up lizard shit from my kitchen floor. Sometimes there’s lizard shit in the morning as well and I always imagine that my reptilian friend might have had a little snack during the previous night, while the humans in the house were asleep. It’s a delight that I have been blessed with for the past five months.

I named the lizar Bob. I figured that if we ever met he would look like a Bob.

Bob is quite a character. He likes playing games and his favorite one is hide-and-seek. We play this game all the time. I’m always looking for Bob, but he is never anywhere to be found. Noah and I have searched for him for weeks, tearing the entire apartment apart in the process, looking for the little bastard, but he’s a sneaky dude.

In the beginning, we didn’t get along very well. When Bob first moved in, I was very happy living within a two-person only family, just Noah and I enjoying ourselves in our little nest, with no pets to worry about. But he didn’t ask to join us; he just moved in with his suitcases and settled in.

Every time Bob left his little turd in the middle of my kitchen, I would politely tell him – through some courtly yelling – to “get the fuck out of my house, you little shit!”, and proceeded to bang on every cupboard, table, sink and stove, moving the refrigerator and freezer out of the way, but… He always got away.

Being a single mother living alone in a big apartment, I learned early on how to deal with animals ravaging my place. I once had an epidemic of  small frogs that lasted for about 6 months. Every day I found little frogs around my house, usually near the bathrooms. One time I had the delightful surprise of running into one of them when I got out of the shower. When I pulled my towel from the hanger he came flying towards me. He had been appreciating the warm humidity of my dirty towel while I was taking my evening bath. This was Fred, by the way. Fred loved bathrooms. So did Rita and Jeremiah. They were a big bigger than Fred and had different colors, and they were always playing inside my bathroom, running their slimy paws on my toothbrush and hairbrush and makeup brushes. Great fun!

For months, every time I would find one of these little assholes, I would get a used plastic bag and throw it repeatedly on top of the sucker until it he was completely covered in it. Then, I would jiggle him around until he jumped inside the bag and while keeping the bag closed, I would take it downstairs and throw it on the other side of the building’s common area. I never killed a single one. I love animals, just not on my towels.

One day, I put poison for ants around the apartment and after a few days the frogs stopped coming by. It turns out they were here to hunt down the ants, so when I got rid of their food, they went away. Now I can pass this life lesson on to others: when infested with frogs, get rid of ants.

And then there’s the cockroach. Most people are afraid of cockroaches. A friend once told me that if she ever found a cockroach in her bedroom, she would get out, lock the door, leave the house, get in her car, drive to the airport and move out of the country, permanently. Alas, I’m not a regular woman. A cockroach will never stand a chance when faced with a single mother who will stop at nothing to ensure that she can sleep peacefully in her bedroom, without the slightest possibility of having a little sleazy motherfuckin’ cockroach walking around her bed at night. When it comes to roaches, I will hunt them down with brooms and flip flops and unless they realize the Stygian fate they are about to encounter and run for their lives, they will die by a power slap from a pink-colored flip-flop filled with hatred and also compassion – because, after all, I love animals.

And then there’s Bob. I realized the fucker was here to stay when he started leaving his excrement on my kitchen floor more than once a day on a daily basis. People to whom I reached out told me to leave the reptilian douchebag alone because he was probably eating other insects who could be even a bigger bother to me. Apparently, lizards are cool and having them in your house is a good thing.

I bet they have never gotten up from bed to get some water at three o’clock in the morning, after hours of insomnia, to find this on floor:

lizardshit

That is lizard shit.

It’s been 5 months. For the past weeks I have been trying to make myself open to the possibility of becoming friends with Bob; after all, he’s been eating insects from my house that could otherwise have been eating my food or getting into my cups and plates or making their way onto my arms and legs (roaches seem to like walking around my legs quite a bit).

The hide-and-seek wasn’t very fun for Noah and me – since we could never find Bob – so we started playing a new game. The game starts when we come home and open our kitchen door and try to get across the kitchen without stepping on any lizard dung. Whoever makes it first to the other side without ending up with fecal matter on their shoes wins. This has made Noah become eager to get home every day. He loves this game.

Having lizard stool on your kitchen floor is also very useful when you have to threaten your child with a lousy chore in case they don’t want to do what they’re told. “If you don’t finish your homework in half an hour, you will clean up Bob’s doo-doo.” When you’re faced with the possibility of having to clean up Bob’s crap, you get shit done.

This week, for the first time, we saw Bob. Noah and I went to the kitchen to get some food and there he was, stuck on the wall near the sink. We all remained very still, Noah, Bob and I. When Noah finally took a step forward, Bob leaped onto the floor and slithered rapidly towards our service area and got away through the open window. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” Noah said.

I like Bob. I think he’s a nice fella. He could leave his defecation anywhere he wants, making it easy for us to unintentionally step on it. But no, not Bob. He always discharges on the exact same tile every day. Although this makes the new game too predictable, it also makes my life easier.

Every day when I get home, I step over Bob’s creamy crud, get a napkin, pick the dung up and throw it in the trash can. Easy breezy.

Once, I put a huge box on the floor, covering the tile where Bob did his number two, and left it there for the day. When I got home, there was the deuce on top of the box. Bob cannot be fooled. He takes his feculence very seriously.

I don’t know how to get rid of Bob, so I will accept him as a guest for now. I often think about when I start dating again and have someone come over to my house for dinner. They will look at the floor and say, “What is that?”

“That, my friend, is lizard shit.”

Note: Below is a picture of a dead lizard. I hope to find Bob like that one day. I will be relieved, though sad. Remember, I love animals.

fd-matarlagartixa

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