Dear Readers,
When asked where I live, I usually give the answer of “Dallas,” but—as with most one-word answers—that’s not quite true. I am about fifteen miles or so outside of that sprawling metroplex, in a small town, graced with trees and a lack of stuffiness.
This also entails wildlife. When I first moved out here, I saw the biggest raccoons I had seen in my life, all in a line, waddling past my porch—the biggest I had seen until I spotted their mom, who was somehow more huge and more round. Friendly spheres with human hands! I was glad to see them but a little afraid.
Yesterday, or perhaps the day before, a skunk sprayed my porch door off my bedroom. I didn’t see or hear the skunk, but I knew. This is a reminder to myself to reseal that door—it keeps the rain out well enough, but that’s apparently not going to cut it.
But what I really want to talk to you about are lizards, specifically one lizard, a green anole. Given the wildness of my backyard, I have some glue traps for flies in my garage. A month or so ago, an anole, no doubt seeking an easy meal, had sealed himself on top of one. Still breathing but stuck and helpless until its inevitable death.
My first instinct was to step on the poor thing or use a hammer. It is useless for creatures to suffer. My husband told me no, the glue traps were our fault; we have to try. And so I did a panicked Google search, and the solution appeared to be lubricant.
I brought the jug out to the lizard. I used my fingers to drip vegetable oil on it and lube up its underbelly. Bit by bit, it came up, minus a few toes. It let us hold it and pry it away from the stick. When we were done, we placed it in the sun.
It might just be the pandemic and the times we are going through, but I cried. I cried so much out on the porch, in the sun, jug of oil in hand. I felt enormous and stupid. But it just felt like not all kind acts are in vain. Here was something small we did together. Here was a lizard, unstuck at last.
This too is a kind act. Writers and artists do not have to create. Writers and artists do not have to submit their work to a small literary magazine that cannot pay. Writers and artists don’t have to do shit.
But here we are anyways, patiently unsticking, carefully prying.
May we all find a spot of sun—even if we’re down a toe or two.
Best,
Nadia Arioli
