I was so noncommittal - purposefully so.I was not up for another relationship.I had given my love non-conditionally many times before and this time I was not going to do it.His soulful eyes beseeched me and all I could do was dive right into the deep blue pools begging me to caress him."Not again," I thought.I WILL NOT GET ATTACHED TO ANOTHER ADOPTED ANIMAL, and so was the case I tried to uphold with Lil' Jerry.
Lil' Jerry is my son's New Zealand rabbit.My dear-one purchased him with the idea that he would earn ONE THOUSAND dollars at a breeders show in eight weeks.When I heard about THE DREAM - I immediately said, "No."I would not care for a rabbit, I would not feed a rabbit, and I didn't want a rabbit!Lil' Jerry moved in last week.
I had already lost myself to a small reptile several years ago.My youngest had received Clyde one Christmas from Santa.Clyde, a small spotted gecko, was not my idea of a warm, fuzzy pet; but my son really wanted him.
SCENE ONE… There was preparation of the aquarium, the purchase of a light, and the discipline of feeding time. I think my sweet; man-child thought this spiny creature would bring him a rather cave-man existence while developing a relationship with this cold-blooded animal.Well, it didn't happen.In fact the whole experience was awful.
My son gleefully fed the little dinosaur small chirping crickets, gave him water, and even helped clean his aquarium.He couldn't wait to teach him tricks, yet he teetered with apprehension and fear that had not been realized until Clyde hauled off and bit his finger.The cave-man retreated with club into his room, and from that point on Mom was chief caretaker for an itty-bitty gecko with slippery, spine-tickling skin, and eyes that almost were larger than his little body. I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it… but I felt responsible since I'm the one that told Santa that my child needed a gecko experience.
SCENE TWO… Clyde made himself at home in my son's room.My son took pleasure in watching him dine on insects, and sun on his small log placed directly beneath his sun lamp. Time passed.I performed the obligatory food, water and aquarium checks.And then… Clyde went on a food strike.He wasn't eating (not even the crickets), he was lethargic, he was not shedding his skin as expected and frankly, he was not his cheerful, reptile-self.I panicked.What if my son woke to find a cold, hard, gecko with his feet in the air?What if he had some weird disease?What kind of psychological damage could occur?I called a pet store and consulted with their reptile director.He suggested Clyde needed extra-virgin-olive oil rubbed on his body… twice a day… yeah, you know where this is going… I spent two weeks taking Clyde out of his aquarium… morning and night, slathering him with extra-virgin-olive oil in hopes that he would shed his skin and become a normal spotted gecko… No one else in my household would touch him; even my husband would walk by and shake his head.I became Clyde's personal masseuse.And I know this is going to sound pretty stupid, but I even became attached to the little sucker - how could I not, when day after day I felt like I may be his only hope for survival, and a successful life as a gecko.It meant something to me.
FINAL SCENE - Despite our morning and evening rituals of oil, Clyde didn't improve.I was desperate… I googled gecko, and fortunately there were topics beside Geico Insurance.I was able to contact a gecko ranch in California and through our correspondence discovered Clyde needed to see a reptile specialist!"Ch-Ching…" was my first thought.The second was… "My husband is going to kill me!"I finally found a nice veterinarian who did specialize in reptiles, and made an appointment.We headed to the doc.Now, I knew I had no money for a reptile visit, at least not the small fortune that I assumed this visit would cost, so… when we came face to face with the good doctor I looked him in the eye and without sounding totally noncompassionate I somberly said, "Doctor, I want to say upfront, I'm limited in how much I can spend on the patient."He looked into my eyes, and he understood.He told us, he would do what he could.They would put Clyde on an intravenous diet (picture a reptile hooked up to an IV) and give us a call on his progress.
We waited two weeks, and unfortunately I had to pull the plug - as the meds didn't work.BOY!DID I FEEL GUILTY! So guilty that I couldn't let Clyde's life be for naught.I wrote a children's story about him.He will always be remembered.
I held Lil' Jerry last night, his heart was racing as my son cleaned his feet with hydrogen peroxide (it's a show thing), and I stroked his body to calm him.The fear subsided, and I wondered if Lil' Jerry will remain apart of our lives or move on.It really is hard to say Good-Bye, isn't it?
To read the story inspired by Clyde, entitled the same, go to www.LauraLilleySmith.com and click on children's stories.
With my birthday month come and gone, I was wistfully thinking about the past year: another year older, what does that mean?I've always thought as I aged, I'd be the woman I had remembered seeing in some television ad in the 70s.She was healthy, and beautiful in her own way (no make-up of course, it WAS the 70s), her crow's feet were laugh lines; her double chin did not exist (perhaps because of her intake of Special K). She was content, happy AND she had a hunky, man ogling her.What more was there to life?
CLEARLY, that woman didn't have two teenagers, a husband (note the hunky, many ogling her), dogs that throw up on her carpet, a cat that sometimes misses the box NOR did she deal with hormonal changes that turned her into Brenda Bad-Ass or Glenda Good Witch.
The woman I imagined doesn't exist. I came to that conclusion early on in my mid-life journey; all it took was discovering the misplacement of hair on my body.Armpit hair had dropped.I mean it… for weeks - I thought this hormone change thing was great, every time I went to shave, I didn't find any hair… until one morning I discovered the hair I had been missing was still there - it's just that my armpit had dropped to mid-breast area!I also thought when Oprah did that show with some high-fashion mid-aged model about facial hair - she needed new content because obviously the fact that the model shaved her chin hair and Oprah plucked hers was a bit too much.I've tried both ways, and I'm still not sure what the best technique is for those pesky hairs. And then there is gray hair… well what can I say, my salon is making a killing.
Mid-life madness is quite a carnival ride.The eyes can be first to go.Can't see your face in the mirror?Oops!Time to get LASIK, but make sure you get plenty of drugs.My friend didn't (because she lied about her weight) and went through the whole procedure totally awake. Not the best experience.
This whole age thing drives me crazy.Up until I turned 40, I truly felt like I was 17.Now, I’m just hoping to age gracefully, and I’m glad to just be here TO AGE.
But even though I’ve turned another year older, I can still turn a head or two… like the other morning when my son and I stopped for gas.He was too busy with PlayStation to pump my gas… so I hopped out and threw the nozzle into the tank, and started to wash my back windshield… a guy pulled up behind me, rolled his window down and said something.I turned around with squeegee in hand and said, “Pardon, me?”He mumbled again.I stepped closer and said, “Sorry, what did you say?”“Do you wanta go have sex?” he said.I LAUGHED so hard, the 30 something male (who I might add, did not resemble a derelict) quickly drove off.
I’ve decided aging gracefully means never taking yourself too seriously.
