CREEK ROAD GANG
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Iguanas I Have Known
Joan G. Andersoncopyright 2011
Actually, I’ve only known one iguana. His name was Achilles, and he lived with my new friend Lisa, and two tabby cats. Until I met Achilles, my perception of these reptiles was based on the title of Tennessee Williams’ play, The Night of the Iguana – which makes them sound rather ominous, as in Night of the Living Dead. So when Lisa invited me over, I mainly hoped that her strange pet would be confined to a cage.
Achilles, I had been told, was a sizeable, middle-aged iguana, very strong and somewhat temperamental. If he bit, he could snap off a finger; if he struck you with his tail, it could break an arm. But Lisa assured me that her lizard was a total sweetie, if unprovoked. There had to be some element of charm about the creature, because she absolutely doted on him. Do iguanas dote back, or at least feel fondness toward their fellow creatures? I couldn’t imagine this to be the case, but tried to remain open about it.
When I arrived around tea time, Lisa was in the kitchen washing dishes. She told me to go on into the bedroom for a look. I was relieved to find the lizard safely behind glass in a large terrarium. He was about three-and-a-half feet long, from nose to tail tip, and elegant to behold. His skin was leathery and covered with interesting bumps; it shimmered with color -- greens, blues, and gold. An interesting single row of pointy things stuck up like fangs running down the middle of his back; they became smaller and smaller as they continued onto his long, thick tail, which finally tapered to a point. He seemed like a cross between a stegosaurus and an alligator. The head was definitely stegosaurus. In profile, his mouth looked like a long line stretching back from the nose – you know, a cartoon-animal kind of mouth, which could be tweaked at the end to turn up into a smile or down into a grimace. There he stood, unblinking, statuesque, posing in profile as though for an iguana beauty contest.
But was it my imagination, or was he wearing a grimace?
I followed his gaze to the bed, next to the terrarium. Two long-hair cats crouched on the coverlet, staring intently at the lizard. Not a muscle moved on those cats, except for an occasional, nearly imperceptible twitch at the end of each tail. They were the very model of focus. If you need to improve your ability to focus on something, look to cats for inspiration.
I was just about to yell into the kitchen and ask Lisa why the animals were all staring at each other as though they’d never met, when the tableau sprang to life. Achilles shot out of the top of the terrarium onto the bed! It hadn’t occurred to me that the glass box might have no lid. The cats were ready. By the time he hit the bedcover, they were halfway to the door. They tore out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, with the iguana in hot pursuit. It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react. Tentatively, I started breathing in and out again.
In the kitchen Lisa was laughing and scolding the cats, so I figured it was safe to go see what was happening. There she stood smiling by the sink, with Achilles draped around her shoulders. He reminded me of the raccoon boa my mother wore back in the 1940s, with the little head draped over one shoulder and the tail over the other. This new boa looked like a sci-fi mutation. The cats were now staring at their food dish, disgruntled, like they deserved something better for their efforts.
Lisa put Achilles back in the terrarium and we settled down for a cup of tea. “Achilles absolutely hates being stared at,” she explained, “and the cats know it. They love to stare at him until he gets furious and chases them around the apartment. They’d do it all day if I let them, but that would be too hard on the poor guy.”
I could see the iguana through the open doorway, and found myself compelled to stare at him. He started making strange movements, so I quickly looked away.
“Why is Achilles nodding his head up and down?” I asked.
“Aha... It must be poop and pee time,” Lisa said. “He only goes once a day -- everything at once -- and he likes to do it in the toilet.”
This I had to see.
She took the iguana into the bathroom and deposited him in the bathtub. “He’ll let me know when he’s ready,” she said.
We stood and watched. After a couple of minutes, the lizard started nodding his head up and down -- more vigorously than before. “That’s the signal,” Lisa announced. She scooped him up and plunked him on the john, facing forward, straddling the seat. He looked pretty comical, clinging to a toilet seat with his ferocious claws. If the British Natural History Museum wanted a modern-day iguana scene for their stuffed-animals-in-action tableaux, this might interest them.
After a few seconds... eureka! Or more appropriately... yuck! The iguana emitted a vigorous goosh of disgusting slime. His unruffled mistress picked him up, gave him a delicate wipe under the tail, and flushed the toilet.
If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it.
“It sure beats cleaning a cage,” said Lisa.
I also never would have believed that a person and a reptile could become so fond of each other. Achilles followed Lisa around the apartment like a puppy dog, hoping to be picked up and petted. She took him for walks on a leash, and on hot summer afternoons let him splash in a blue plastic kiddy wading pool. He hated dogs, but it seemed like maybe he thought he was one.
One balmy summer day, I invited Lisa to go swimming with me at my favorite swimming hole. It was a small lake, about a half-mile across, surrounded by woods and trails. There were two small beaches on opposite shores: one for people only, and the other for people with dogs. I loved swimming in this idyllic place. Swallows swooped down low over my head in pursuit of insects, and an occasional beaver glided past, dragging a stick to the beaver dam.
“Could I bring Achilles?” Lisa asked. “Iguanas love to swim, and it’ll be such a treat for him. I’ll keep him on the leash. He won’t be any trouble.”
I had misgivings about taking a large reptile to a popular swimming hole, but Lisa was so excited about the idea, I didn’t want to say no.
We couldn’t very well take him to the beach for people only, so we headed for the dog beach... soon to be a “people with dogs and reptiles” beach. The problem was, Achilles didn’t just hate dogs... he was terrified of them as well.
“No problem,” said Lisa, “We’ll go down the path away from the beach and find a private spot for ourselves. You go ahead and see if there are any dogs around.” I went ahead with the towels and picnic hamper; she draped the lizard around her shoulders, and tagged along behind.
Happily, the beach was empty. We headed down the trail, found a nice spot at the water’s edge, and spread our blanket. But just as we were preparing to settle down, a jogger came running down the trail followed by... oh no... a dog! The dog saw Achilles and started barking. Before Lisa could grab the lizard’s leash, Achilles sprang from her shoulders and hit the water with a mighty splash! We glimpsed a flash of green shooting away from us underwater, and then nothing. He was gone.
“Oh my god,” Lisa wailed, “How will we ever get him back? Iguanas are so at home in the water -- and in trees, too. What if he doesn’t come out until night? He’ll go right up into the treetops and we’ll never find him!”
She jumped into the lake. “You stay here in case he comes back. I’ll try to find him.” Off she swam, zigzagging this way and that, trying to keep away from floating bodies and kids on inner tubes. “Achilles! Achilles!” she yelled.
I didn’t know what to do. Much as I loved swimming, I was glad I wasn’t in the water with a large lizard on the loose. Those claws were so long. What if he did want to join up with me? I recalled the time a golden retriever had tried either to rescue me or be rescued by me in the middle of this lake, and I’d gotten some bad scratches in the process. I only hoped Achilles wouldn’t try approaching other swimmers thinking they were Lisa. Wow... there’d be total pandemonium! A potential horror movie scene popped into my mind – a variation on Creature from the Black Lagoon. Day of the Iguana. You know... shrieking women, wailing children, confused men all thrashing wildly and swimming for shore, yelling, “It’s the monster! It’s real! Aiieeeee!”
Good thing there weren’t too many people in the lake today. Lisa was out there swimming in circles, yelling, attracting stares. I wandered down the trail and began to call out, in a discreetly low voice, “Achilles! Achilles!” This was totally ridiculous. Even if he was nearby, the iguana didn’t know me from Adam.
I waded into the lake a little ways and stared into the water. At first it was just dark and still, but then, farther out, I noticed a little ripple. A turtle poked his nose up for breath. No... wait a minute... was it a turtle? The nose came nearer and nearer. It was Achilles! I backed up onto the shore, and amazingly, the iguana crawled out of the water, too. He came toward me in that awkward way you see crocodiles clamber up a river bank in the movies, first one claw, then another. That’s before they reveal how fast they can run at you and clamp their fangs around your leg.
“Good boy, Achilles!” I said, despite my qualms. “Come on, follow me.” I slowly walked back down the trail to our blanket, with the lizard crawling along behind me. I couldn’t believe it. “Lisa!” I yelled. “He’s back! Here he is! Come quick!”
All’s well that ends well, and we ended our little saga as fast as possible. Crying with relief, Lisa scooped Achilles up in her arms and ran back to the car with him. I followed with our things. And as it turned out, all three of us, more or less, fit very nicely in the blue plastic kiddy wading pool.
Achilles, I had been told, was a sizeable, middle-aged iguana, very strong and somewhat temperamental. If he bit, he could snap off a finger; if he struck you with his tail, it could break an arm. But Lisa assured me that her lizard was a total sweetie, if unprovoked. There had to be some element of charm about the creature, because she absolutely doted on him. Do iguanas dote back, or at least feel fondness toward their fellow creatures? I couldn’t imagine this to be the case, but tried to remain open about it.
When I arrived around tea time, Lisa was in the kitchen washing dishes. She told me to go on into the bedroom for a look. I was relieved to find the lizard safely behind glass in a large terrarium. He was about three-and-a-half feet long, from nose to tail tip, and elegant to behold. His skin was leathery and covered with interesting bumps; it shimmered with color -- greens, blues, and gold. An interesting single row of pointy things stuck up like fangs running down the middle of his back; they became smaller and smaller as they continued onto his long, thick tail, which finally tapered to a point. He seemed like a cross between a stegosaurus and an alligator. The head was definitely stegosaurus. In profile, his mouth looked like a long line stretching back from the nose – you know, a cartoon-animal kind of mouth, which could be tweaked at the end to turn up into a smile or down into a grimace. There he stood, unblinking, statuesque, posing in profile as though for an iguana beauty contest.
But was it my imagination, or was he wearing a grimace?
I followed his gaze to the bed, next to the terrarium. Two long-hair cats crouched on the coverlet, staring intently at the lizard. Not a muscle moved on those cats, except for an occasional, nearly imperceptible twitch at the end of each tail. They were the very model of focus. If you need to improve your ability to focus on something, look to cats for inspiration.
I was just about to yell into the kitchen and ask Lisa why the animals were all staring at each other as though they’d never met, when the tableau sprang to life. Achilles shot out of the top of the terrarium onto the bed! It hadn’t occurred to me that the glass box might have no lid. The cats were ready. By the time he hit the bedcover, they were halfway to the door. They tore out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, with the iguana in hot pursuit. It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react. Tentatively, I started breathing in and out again.
In the kitchen Lisa was laughing and scolding the cats, so I figured it was safe to go see what was happening. There she stood smiling by the sink, with Achilles draped around her shoulders. He reminded me of the raccoon boa my mother wore back in the 1940s, with the little head draped over one shoulder and the tail over the other. This new boa looked like a sci-fi mutation. The cats were now staring at their food dish, disgruntled, like they deserved something better for their efforts.
Lisa put Achilles back in the terrarium and we settled down for a cup of tea. “Achilles absolutely hates being stared at,” she explained, “and the cats know it. They love to stare at him until he gets furious and chases them around the apartment. They’d do it all day if I let them, but that would be too hard on the poor guy.”
I could see the iguana through the open doorway, and found myself compelled to stare at him. He started making strange movements, so I quickly looked away.
“Why is Achilles nodding his head up and down?” I asked.
“Aha... It must be poop and pee time,” Lisa said. “He only goes once a day -- everything at once -- and he likes to do it in the toilet.”
This I had to see.
She took the iguana into the bathroom and deposited him in the bathtub. “He’ll let me know when he’s ready,” she said.
We stood and watched. After a couple of minutes, the lizard started nodding his head up and down -- more vigorously than before. “That’s the signal,” Lisa announced. She scooped him up and plunked him on the john, facing forward, straddling the seat. He looked pretty comical, clinging to a toilet seat with his ferocious claws. If the British Natural History Museum wanted a modern-day iguana scene for their stuffed-animals-in-action tableaux, this might interest them.
After a few seconds... eureka! Or more appropriately... yuck! The iguana emitted a vigorous goosh of disgusting slime. His unruffled mistress picked him up, gave him a delicate wipe under the tail, and flushed the toilet.
If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it.
“It sure beats cleaning a cage,” said Lisa.
I also never would have believed that a person and a reptile could become so fond of each other. Achilles followed Lisa around the apartment like a puppy dog, hoping to be picked up and petted. She took him for walks on a leash, and on hot summer afternoons let him splash in a blue plastic kiddy wading pool. He hated dogs, but it seemed like maybe he thought he was one.
One balmy summer day, I invited Lisa to go swimming with me at my favorite swimming hole. It was a small lake, about a half-mile across, surrounded by woods and trails. There were two small beaches on opposite shores: one for people only, and the other for people with dogs. I loved swimming in this idyllic place. Swallows swooped down low over my head in pursuit of insects, and an occasional beaver glided past, dragging a stick to the beaver dam.
“Could I bring Achilles?” Lisa asked. “Iguanas love to swim, and it’ll be such a treat for him. I’ll keep him on the leash. He won’t be any trouble.”
I had misgivings about taking a large reptile to a popular swimming hole, but Lisa was so excited about the idea, I didn’t want to say no.
We couldn’t very well take him to the beach for people only, so we headed for the dog beach... soon to be a “people with dogs and reptiles” beach. The problem was, Achilles didn’t just hate dogs... he was terrified of them as well.
“No problem,” said Lisa, “We’ll go down the path away from the beach and find a private spot for ourselves. You go ahead and see if there are any dogs around.” I went ahead with the towels and picnic hamper; she draped the lizard around her shoulders, and tagged along behind.
Happily, the beach was empty. We headed down the trail, found a nice spot at the water’s edge, and spread our blanket. But just as we were preparing to settle down, a jogger came running down the trail followed by... oh no... a dog! The dog saw Achilles and started barking. Before Lisa could grab the lizard’s leash, Achilles sprang from her shoulders and hit the water with a mighty splash! We glimpsed a flash of green shooting away from us underwater, and then nothing. He was gone.
“Oh my god,” Lisa wailed, “How will we ever get him back? Iguanas are so at home in the water -- and in trees, too. What if he doesn’t come out until night? He’ll go right up into the treetops and we’ll never find him!”
She jumped into the lake. “You stay here in case he comes back. I’ll try to find him.” Off she swam, zigzagging this way and that, trying to keep away from floating bodies and kids on inner tubes. “Achilles! Achilles!” she yelled.
I didn’t know what to do. Much as I loved swimming, I was glad I wasn’t in the water with a large lizard on the loose. Those claws were so long. What if he did want to join up with me? I recalled the time a golden retriever had tried either to rescue me or be rescued by me in the middle of this lake, and I’d gotten some bad scratches in the process. I only hoped Achilles wouldn’t try approaching other swimmers thinking they were Lisa. Wow... there’d be total pandemonium! A potential horror movie scene popped into my mind – a variation on Creature from the Black Lagoon. Day of the Iguana. You know... shrieking women, wailing children, confused men all thrashing wildly and swimming for shore, yelling, “It’s the monster! It’s real! Aiieeeee!”
Good thing there weren’t too many people in the lake today. Lisa was out there swimming in circles, yelling, attracting stares. I wandered down the trail and began to call out, in a discreetly low voice, “Achilles! Achilles!” This was totally ridiculous. Even if he was nearby, the iguana didn’t know me from Adam.
I waded into the lake a little ways and stared into the water. At first it was just dark and still, but then, farther out, I noticed a little ripple. A turtle poked his nose up for breath. No... wait a minute... was it a turtle? The nose came nearer and nearer. It was Achilles! I backed up onto the shore, and amazingly, the iguana crawled out of the water, too. He came toward me in that awkward way you see crocodiles clamber up a river bank in the movies, first one claw, then another. That’s before they reveal how fast they can run at you and clamp their fangs around your leg.
“Good boy, Achilles!” I said, despite my qualms. “Come on, follow me.” I slowly walked back down the trail to our blanket, with the lizard crawling along behind me. I couldn’t believe it. “Lisa!” I yelled. “He’s back! Here he is! Come quick!”
All’s well that ends well, and we ended our little saga as fast as possible. Crying with relief, Lisa scooped Achilles up in her arms and ran back to the car with him. I followed with our things. And as it turned out, all three of us, more or less, fit very nicely in the blue plastic kiddy wading pool.
* * *
Biographical Note for Joan G. Anderson (in brief): Joan holds a B.A. and M.A. in French and German Literature
from Oberlin College in Oberlin, Ohio, and an Ed.D. in Adult and Student
Education from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. While pursuing her doctorate, she served as
residence hall director and taught classes in Social Diversity Education, as
well as classes in ballroom, aerobic, and line dancing. Prior to that, she raised two sons while
pursuing a career in graphic design, photography, and promotional writing. While living in Ohio, she created and
exhibited large-scale fabric artworks; nowadays, in Pennsylvania, she dabbles
in watercolor. She recently retired from
the workforce to focus on fine arts, dance, writing, and other delights. See Author Index Prose A-K for more of Joan's work.
