my chameleon

Pets weren't welcome and never fared well in our home when we were kids. We had a few kittens and I vaguely remember a couple of dogs way back when. The kittens developed a fatal affinity for hiding behind or sitting on top of our car's wheels and my mother routinely backed over them. My dad always buried the dead animal quickly and we children never saw them. If we cried when we "lost" another cat, we were sternly admonished by Mama.

"Stop it. It was only an animal."

My mother lashed out to cover the painful feelings that overwhelmed her. She never opened up very much and hid her vulnerability well. So, as a good daughter, I accepted her declarations, hid my sadness, and stifled any affection I might have had for pets. My mother once stayed upset for a long time after being the accidental executioner once again and declared that none of us kids would ever have another pet. And, we didn't--until my chameleon.

My dad bought it for me at the Michigan State Fair. He had taken us kids to the fair to give mom a break. The lizard and a small box of meal worms for food cost $1.25. The 4-inch creature had a thread tied loosely around his neck which, at the other end, was attached to a tiny gold safety pin used to secure him to my clothes. A leash and collar combo. He wasn't furry and cute like a kitten and I wasn't sure I wanted the little reptile attached to my shoulder. I didn't know anything about them. I wondered about biting and peeing. Sure, his ability to change colors to match whatever I was wearing was interesting, but it was my dad's excitement about the little guy's talent that sealed the deal for me.

After my initial hesitation, I proudly wore him around the fair that evening while his hue ranged from the bluish-green of my sweater to the red in the plaid of my blouse. I delighted in the stares and comments of the other fair-goers when they noticed him on my shoulder. I felt special. I felt brave.

Dad hadn't said anything to me but we both knew my mom wouldn't like it. The animal was too slithery and snakelike for her and she was terrified of snakes. When we got home that night, as my dad's co-conspirator, I proudly showed my mom my new present anyway. She had then what she called a "blue-nosed hissy" when I showed her my little green lizard.

She jumped back in fright, glared at me and through clenched teeth said,

"OH GOD! Get that thing out of here!"

The she went after Dad.

"MACK! What's the matter with you?"

I thought she was going to kill him. He tried to calm her down.

"C'mon, Bobbie. Just look at him."

He smiled, cajoled, and tried to sweet talk her into it. With his every ounce of boyish charm he worked hard to win her over. He cupped my lizard in his hand and tried to coax my mom into seeing how harmless it was. His eyes were full of mischief when he said,

"Look at his cute, little, pointy face and his cute, little, pointy tail."

She wouldn't have any part of it. Even with our smiling, sincere assurances that her fears wouldn't be realized and he would not "get loose in her house and scare her to death," she came completely unglued about the thing. She didn't want any creature surprises.

After much pleading, begging and even a few tears from me, she gave up and said she'd let us keep him if we promised her he'd stay in a cage down in the basement. Out of her sight. Which we did until he died 6 weeks later of natural causes. Or neglect.

As parents, Byron and I had various pets for our children in our home over the years; several dogs (including a pitbull), cats of various types such as a pregnant calico and huge male Siamese, and a little parakeet that was passed around from our house to my mother-in-law's to Holly's house because he was a very messy bird. Fun, but messy. Each one has been without emotional ties for me until eleven years ago. That's when one Christmas I deliberately determined to unpack my stifled affection for animals and learned to lavish it on a feisty, chocolate brown Chihuahua named Treasure.