Just as I had shed shoes and socks for beach-thongs to air my toesies and collected the rocker from its under-outside-table hide with a couple of upturned recycle-bins for endtable duties, no sooner had a speckling of sunshafts begun to dapple below the bottlebrush bush (really, I think Tree) than did young Ms. Anole hop aboard my left foot and grab a little flying lunch. I prided myself for knowing not that it had arrived to begin our first week’s flirt and not jerking away and flipping said lass airborne into the now blooming by spike soaring skyward aloe: I had schooled those two offending feet to take the tickle of this tiny house (or foot, if you must) keeper. I have graduated to bending over to say hellohowareyous and watching her twist about to (anthropromorphizingly) face me and nod back.
I left after a few hours to fetch tea and non-crumpets…the tea splashing just a touch on those nekkid toes – all the better to draw flies and such for her daily enrichment. She entertained me with aerialistic hopping from one ankle to the other, mouth hoovering morsels and gumping with no compunctions about Amy- and Ann- or even – gasp! – Emily-flouting. And no salt nor pepper either! Better than most movies of recent enduring. ‘Sides, didn’t necessitate popcorn either!
Then, horror happened.
I had noticed this big dark brute – my gal is much smaller, lighter and with visible striations zig-zagging down her semi-svelte and not belly-biggening body – dewflap(?) bugling its lordship and headbobbing its dominance from atop a 55-gallon compost bin retired from its days as garbage-truck maw feeder. A few days ago it moved closer. To the smaller round picnic plastic table at which last Fall I took machete-whacks at overstayed holiday pumpkins I decided needed a new home in compost after rescuing seeds and such stringy stuff (later well washed and strained) to dry before salt-n-canola oil roasting for a good chew-stitute to theose ‘spensive bags of baseballplayers’ seedspitting at such high price. This cad without my notice climbed off its picnic table leg but a mere half-dozen feet from our rockingchair patch’s perch and made a startling – to me and she – rush. He hopped aboard boldly my right foot’s arch – surprisingly such a light landing! – and bounded to the other arch just vacated with much haste by herself and off the two went into the leafpile under the surrounding bottlebrush bushes and the just-now ripening Chickasaw Plums turning from light cream green to a paler shade of yellow – almost pear with speckled spots and lavender scent and taste.
That was near 8 p.m. and since I left the manse just past sunrise – too early for reptilians I’m told, I will not have either know or guess what gives until time for the purported few spits we call a small shower hereabouts. Mayhap I will fetch some dial and a cloth and take an oudoor (screened by BlueTip Palmetto, hibiscus and towering papaya entering its second season without harm and small but tasty fruit.
Doncha just love a good mystery?