When I first noticed you, I was thrilled. You're a small token of my Northern Californian childhood, and you skittering across my path brought forth memories of imprisoning you for a few hours in papercups topped with be-holed wax paper. Remember how I used to stroke your blue bellies and you'd be "hypnotized"? That was fun. And I moved here from a city where the roaches are the only creepy crawlies, so you're a nice reminder that I no longer have to struggle with spending an hour looking for a parking space only to stuff myself into a studio with a closet the houses half of my wardrobe and neighbors who know everything about me, down to my TV-watching schedule and likewise.
Lizards, I don't know if this is the right season but you appear to be multiplying. I went outside to smoke a quick cigarette only a moment ago and I saw not one, not two, but four of you lazing about in the ever-beating rays of the October sun (which is similarly beginning to freak me out). As long as you stay outside, I don't mind it so much and besides, I think you eat bugs which is a large help since my big bad spider-smooshing boyfriend has de-arachnid'd the whole of our property. But you're scaring the dog who is only just recently becoming accustomed to having an outdoor territory all his own. I know my terrifying-looking dog is a pussycat, but part of the reason I keep him is because he provides a false sense of now-unnecessary security (ref: moving from metropolis to small town where the doors can be left unlocked and my stuff will still be here when I get home) and seeing him yelp and leap away from your darting selves only serves to remind me that we live in a dangerous world full of West Nile virus-carrying mosquitos and greedy landlords.
The house next door contains two children that I'm sure would delight upon your presence. Kindly find your way over there and I'm sure we'll all live more fulfilling lives.
Thanks much,
me!