He’s nothing like the fancy golden labrador who made the marital life of Owen Wilson and Jennfier Aniston blissful when they were childless. Neither is he a fluffy cat prototype who endeared to Phoebe, in who’s dedication she sang a “smelly” song. Nor is he like the congenial orangutan from Dunkston-checks in, who had a few tricks up his sleeve. He’s another newly born lizard(given the size)- the most marginalised variant of the reptilian lineage- who is neither amazing(Amazon) enough to tempt men like Steve Erwin to embark on sojourns, during prime time slots on Discovery. If the unflattering texture of his pale skin is anything to go by, he’s neither a looker. Not to mention the stigmatic appeal that precedes his kind, precluding them from being petted since forever.
Assuming that he’s a guy for convenience sake, I’m gonna call him Liz, a little girly for a guy, but never mind. So it all started with his timid interactions with my feet, especially the toes. I was a little too big for him to interface personally, so he probably picked some one of his own size. The naive guy that he is, assumed my moving toes to be a bevy of bugs, lined up as a delicacy. So he would start going for it tactfully; hiding and pouncing smoothly at them. After many a failed attempts of attack- it seemed like he finally came to terms with the fact that they were after all not organisms below him in the food chain- his interactions with them eventually became cordial. So he would sometimes deceitfully slip in from under the table, stare at them for a while and move his mouth as if in a purposeful conversation. Leave alone a female lizard, poor guy didn’t even have another lizard at crawling distance. I felt at times when he got horny, little devil,would treat the soft contours of my toes like an ersatz mate; trying to embrace them with his little limbs.
Slowly my stigma as old as me melted into endearment. I started becoming aware of his shenanigans to reach out, every time I sat before the computer table; legs stretched. I became watchful of my steps around him, especially any superfluous movement with the feet. He no more felt like a specimen, but like a fragile buddy who was all alone by himself in this big bad world- which was at times capable of making me feel like an insect- sans knowledge of its language nor its ways. He’s just a curious hopeful guy who just knew to survive for as long as he could in his little world, that stretched below my table, neither knowing day from night or right from wrong.
We never spoke in a common language, understood each other’s intentions like with cats and dogs through touch-this was a relation that had its roots in this part of my heart that made my head turn protectively, every time I saw a stray dog cross across a busy road clumsily . It is quite fascinating how our perspectives change with age and experience, making habits out of erstwhile taboos, friends out of strangers while making strangers out of friends and pets out of pet peeves.