Featuring:
Iguana Tell You
JOAN VASS
LE PAINTY
One more challenge in the cycle of life.
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Like a good neighbor. State Farm is there.
e all know that there is
no such thing as a free
lunch. I am here to tell
you that there is no
such thing as a free lizard, either,
just in case you wondered.
The friends who came to din-
ner last Shabbat brought a gift
for our six-year-old son. They
had warned me that they would
and, naively, I thanked them.
The gift is a bright green iguana
in its own big terrarium, com-
plete with driftwood to climb on
and a little plaster food dish that
looks like it is carved out of black
rock.
Cute, for a reptile, and totally
contained. I felt like Ed McMa-
hon setting up Johnny Carson
when I said to our friends, "This
is great, just super. This is all
we'll ever need for this iguana,
isn't it?"
"Well " they answered, "A
few other little things might
come up. He may need, well, a
heat lamp, and stuff like that."
`Stufflike that' turns out to be
a "warm rock" that plugs in and
gives the critter someplace cozy
to bask ($29). 'Stuff turns out to
include the aforementioned heat
lamp ($19) plus the requisite
spectrum bulb ($9),
daylight,
the hollowed-out hiding log ($11),
the water dish ($3), and the hu-
midity mister ($5). This iguana
lives better than Lassie.
full
The lizard was cute,
for a reptile.
"What does he eat?" we asked.
"Oh, just about everything,"
they said, "Except no meat or cit-
rus or strawberries."
What he is supposed to eat is
carefully carved vegetable and
fruit peels and a special iguana
food and vitamin mix ($11),
which he has so far refused to
eat. He likes lettuce (romaine or
Boston, mind you, not iceberg).
He'll deign to consume cucum-
ber peels and slivers of apple. I'm
just this short of bringing him
caviar. The iguana book ($9.95)
says he'll eat yellow squash, but
I have resisted making a special
trip to the produce market just
to find out since no other living
being under our roof — human
or canine — has any interest at
all in squash.
"Is he friendly," we wondered.
"Sure," they said. "Pick him
up, stroke his head. He'll get to
know you."
Either he refuses to get to
know me, or he knows me and
just doesn't like me; but this is
not working. I bring him his mix
of gourmet veggies and fruit. I
change the water in his dish, re-
arrange his driftwood to be
scenic and useful, and — as-
suming that any beast which has
received all this largess ought to
at least be sociable — reach in to
give him a pat. Right away, he
rolls his yellow eyes at me, opens
his toothless mouth, and tries to
knock my hand up and out of the
terrarium with his tail.
Ingrate.
My husband can pick him up,
if he puts on gardening gloves.
Our six-year-old is dying to try,
but for now is content running
one stubby, grubby little finger
down the critter's snout as its
amber eyes slowly close. While
my spouse holds the iguana,
guess who gets to tidy up the
cage. I anticipated lots of
challenges when I became a
mom, but I'm not sure I antici-
pated serving as janitor to a rep-
tile.
The former owner, a teen-age
boy, could pick the iguana up
easily, perch it on his shoulder,
and do the polka with it for all I
know. We are not at that ad-
vanced stage of rapport just yet.
For now, it is simply the object
of group fascination. Only our
13-year-old daughter is totally
untouched. "That thing," she
calls it, as in "Why do we have to
have that thing?" I suppose she
would call it by name if it had
one, but our son changes its
name more often that I change
its water dish. So far it has been
Mike, Spike, Magic, Greeny,
Dino and Iggy.
But the little kids love it. If I
had a quarter for every time a
neighborhood child has pressed
his or her nose up to that glass
tank, I'd be rich. I'd even be able
to afford my free iguana. 0
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