Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

Lizards fascinate me. They hypnotize me with their mystery. I spend countless hours studying Goo the household iguana, as well as the loosely-linked tribe of anoles that live in my backyard garden. Sometimes I wonder if I spend too much time amongst the ‘zards.

Some lizards can make some noises, but by and large the preferred method of lizardly communication is nonverbal. Body language, baby. It is surprisingly sophisticated. I have become sensitive to it. I realized this the other day when Goo was vigorously complaining about not being allowed to bite the soft, floppy yellow years of the Chihuahua. Goo registered his complaint by a particular type of head bob, repeated several times. This style of bob is the equivalent of typing your email in all caps. It’s so loud, it’s rude.

“You’re not going to get your way, so you might as well quit yelling at me,” I said, somewhat strongly.

“Talking to yourself again, Mom?” Veronica said, peeking out of her room.

“I am talking to Goo. I am answering him,” I told her.

V.’s door clicked shut again but I could hear her telling her friend Penelope on the cell phone, “Yeah, it’s just my mom talking to herself again.”

Dammit, I am not talking to myself. My talks with myself are gentle and encouraging. Talks with Goo are characterized by hostility on the lizard’s part because I’ve rescued the dog from the iguana’s malevolent clutches AGAIN, or because I would not let the iguana commandeer my cheeseburger, despite the ig’s impressive leap across space, time, and from his window perch to the dining room table. Talks with myself run more along the lines of, “C’mon, Tam, you can do it!,” rather than, “Blast you, you human bitch, for not letting me lay in the warm popcorn. Damn you!” Although I can be rather hard on myself, I am never as mercilessly excoriating to myself as Goo is to me.

“Did you hear what he said?” I said excitedly to Sergei, after Goo had delivered an oratorical triumph of head bobs and head shakings. It was the reptile equivalent of the Gettysburg Damn Address.

“Uhh, yeah,” said Sergei, who has learned that sometimes it is just easier to humor me.

“I’m not jiving you,” I said. “Did you GET that? Did you see that? It was incredible!”

“I thought so, too,” Sergei said loyally.

You can see why I love this man so intensely.

I have been intently watching the anoles in the backyard. Their machinations are complex and fascinating. I try to tell Veronica.

“V., come out, quick!” I say, urgently. “There’s a turf war brewing between Big Green and Brown Stripe! They’re not just bluffing, this time! They mean business!”

Of course when Veronica comes outside (reluctantly), there is not an anole in sight. It is as if there has never, ever been an anole in this part of the world for ten million years. It is as if anoles never even existed.

“Fascinating, Mom,” says Veronica, stifling a yawn. “Glad you got me up at six a.m. on a Saturday morning to see all this great stuff NOT HAPPENING. Can I please go back to bed now? You can sit here and imagine lizards having wars and tea parties and playing backgammon and all that as long as you want.”

“It was real, V.,” I say. “I swear. But go on back to bed.”

“If you watch long enough, Mom,” says V., “The anoles might perform ‘The Music Man’ for you. Let me know how they do, ok?”

V. pulls the back door shut behind her and the anoles spring back into action, as if on cue. Maybe V. going back indoors WAS their cue. The anoles have largely lost their fear of me, due to familiarity. Sometimes Big Green or Scar Head will even approach me and do threat displays. The threat display consists of head bobs and push-up type movements, dewlap extended and cherry red. To humor the little critters, sometimes I pretend to be frightened and scurry away, ceding turf to the head-bobbers. I think it makes them feel good. I’m all for improving lizardly self-esteem, when I can.

I’m getting pretty good at interpreting the various head bobs. But sometimes I overgeneralize my findings. Occasionally I will run into a neighbor or acquaintance at the bank or the post office, and the person will nod his/her head at me. I find myself applying lizard criteria to the head bob. Are we about to have a turf war? Should I skitter off and find another bank? Was that a friendly bob, because the person considers me wimpy and subordinate and therefore not a physical threat? Or do they want to mate with me?

“Mom, I’m pretty sure it just means ‘Hi,’” says Veronica.

“Probably so,” I agree. “But without clues from a dewlap position, it’s difficult to know for sure. I wish people had dewlaps.”

“This is the kind of stuff that makes me count the days til I can go off to college, Mom.”

To facilitate my study of the anoles, and to make friends with them, I started a fly ranch. Flies are very easy to maintain. You just keep some rancid food garbage outside your back door, uncovered. The flies will come, in droves. You get used to the smell in a few days. The fly ranch pleases the anoles and also keeps all but the most dementedly determined door-to-door salesmen and Jehovah’s Witnesses at bay.

“Mom,” Veronica said. “Just so you know. Your fly ranch is why I am counting the HOURS til I can go away to college.”

“I could have worse hobbies,” I countered. “I mean, I could be smoking crack.”

“It wouldn’t smell as bad as your fly farm,” said V.

I am also interested in the geckos which appear near the porch lights at night. I am thinking of starting a moth ranch for the geckos. But I think I’ll cut my kid some slack, and wait until she goes off to college to get the moth operation up and running.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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