I killed a baby lizard.
Part of the reason I’m a vegetarian is that I can’t stand violence. I can barely tolerate anger, because I know the vast wells of anger I dip into can make me so blind with rage that I wish violence on people and things.
So to kill something has left me incredibly sad.
I wasn’t angry (I hope … a dog had just chased Tigrito, so my adrenaline was pumping). The tiny thing was so fast, it darted under the dishwasher and I figured I’d never get it out. I went back a few minutes later and it was scurrying across to the cats’ bowls.
I grabbed a glass coffee mug and a casino mail flyer and tried to capture it so I could take it outside. I’ve done this dozens of times this summer, as the cats are pretty damn vicious (or the lizards are not reading the “Trespassers Beware” signs I posted at the bottom of the cat flap.
The glass mug came down on its neck.
Even now, I have to stop, breathe and just accept it was a horrible mistake. It didn’t know I was trying to save it. It was running for its life and it was so small and so quick, I misjudged.
There’s no point to the story, really. No one cares that much about lizards and this one had no name, no cute backstory. It was the wrong place and wrong time and it died.
I’m trying to laugh and dress it up with a Clue-inspired title and a photo, but inside … I feel bad that I ended its life right as it was running so hard to live
“The only way to cope with something deadly serious is to try to treat it a little lightly.” – Madeline L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time