A few weeks ago two lizards appeared in our yard. They seemed to be fast friends, even though one looked like Rango and the other like the typical lizards one finds in the gardens of LA. The standard lizard did his customary push-ups while the escaped day of the iguana or rogue karmic chameleon with upward curled tail demonstrated her distinctive walk: a funky rolling gait in which she seemed to ride an invisible wave. Regular lizard, in contrast, snaked side-to-side as he cut dusty trails or climbed the walls.
Sadly, a couple of weeks ago, I found the fish-out-of-water lizard dead in the pool, imitating William Holden at the beginning of Sunset Boulevard. Unlike Gloria Swanson, however, I didn’t call the mortuary, but rather buried it, with spirit but without much ceremony in the sacred ground where also rest three guinea pigs, a goldfish and assorted birds and mammals who met their demise within the confines of the land I tend, but do not pretend to “own” (no matter how banks, mortgages, property taxes and departments of water, power and trash might weigh, cash or trash-in on the matter).