The Iguana. An email to my friends.

2012. Circa.

Yeah, sooooo... I'm house sitting and in charge of feeding my friend's pets while they are in Hawaii.

Today, which is only my second day of feeding, I arrive at the compound to hear the loud cluck, cluck, clucking of the chicken who is very much trapped and hungry in his little red hutch. His hutch smells like farm crap as I release the latch to throw in a handful of feed, as though I am Laura Ingalls. Gross. He begins pecking immediately... as he is starved, I imagine. While he's pecking about, I have to forage around in the hutch underneath him for the two tan, speckled (might I add ORGANIC) eggs which are laying in waiting. Eggs in hand, I maneuver out his plastic watering contraption, which I discover is a tad fetid and smells like shit...so I have to be careful not to spill it on my heels as I walk ahead to find the water spigget. I set the eggs down, they will go in the fridge with the other dozen collecting there. While I go to the water, I realize I've forgotten to latch the hutch, so as I return with his water, I see the chicken happily hopping about yelling, "I'm freeeee! I'm freeee!" I run after it, heels and all, and grab it's fat body and throw it back in the coop. I'm in heels because I have to go be a book keeper in 30 minutes at my freelance job in Culver City.

Sigh.

I continue on the side pathway of the compound to tend to the separately caged rabbit and two guinea pigs. Rabbit is jumpin' up on the cage like, "Yo, son, Where you beeeeen?" I quickly throw some hay his way and he is chill. The Guinea's on the other hand are so freaking parched because their water bottle is MacGyver-rigged and it has fallen down. It has been one day since I've visited, so about 36 hours with no water. The black and white one's mouth is moving so fast as he tries to clamp on the silver watering tube, I have to say, "Whoa, Charlie [not his name] slow your roll." But he doesn't slow, nor does he move aside so Brown and White can get a grip on the water, too. Fighting ensues. Brown and White whines, "Can a brother get a drink of water..????!?!" Black and White, not letting go "No". So Brown and White snaps and chest bumps 'til Black and White finally moves. He then just runs around to cage like a crazy person (guinea) til the other finally moves.

Sigh.

I head inside to feed the cat. All is well there. She is meowing like crazy. So lonely. She nuzzles me so many times, I feel I am being molested a bit. I can only pet her so many times; I do have to get to work after all.

Time for the Iguana. In the bathroom. In the back. I place the organic eggs in the fridge and grab some kale and carrots and head on my way across the stone floor. Kitty is trailing me, weaving between my legs, tripping me up. I've taken off my heels as so not to track dirt in the house from the farm.

I get to the bathroom and approach the very large cage which is behind the sink near the window. I'm peering through my glasses, cocking my head, standing on tip toe, looking, looking, looking for the multi-colored, mostly green scaly Igster amongst the foliage and wood in the cage. Igster is at least 4 feet long. Distinctive mohawk. Little hard to hide. Hmmm.

"Where's the Iguana?" I say out loud to Kitty. She looks at me, "I dunno." I look at the cage again, and there, low and behold, the little door is wide open. Igster has escaped.

I start frantically looking around, kale and carrot still in hand..."Kitty, where ...is...the Iguana...?!!!" Her gray round face has no answers for me, even though I KNOW she knows.

Now, I'm scared and late for work. I imagine Igster is staring at me from under a bed or something. I have no shoes on, I'm half waiting for him to slither across my toes and scrape me with his Iguana claws. I'm scared. There are so many closets, and doors and beds and this and that, Igster can be anywhere. I run back out to my car for my cell, because I now have to send an alert text to Hawaii: "There's a problem. No Iguana". I wait for a response. It comes: "That's a problem".

I text, "Will he bite me when I find him?"

Text response, "If you find him, cover with a towel. His tail whips. You need an extra set of hands if possible."

So....

Who wants to go hunt an Iguana with me tomorrow? :)

Time.

The California morning sun blazed on my shoulders as I sipped my hot green tea in my office.

My office, which is actually my back porch, is my special place in the morning. My cat arrives to the office before I do, and sits on her chair like a time clock, alerting and reminding me that the sun will only be in the right position from 8:00 am to 9:30 am, and I'd better hurry and punch in if I want enjoy this part of the morning. This is the time we both like. She yawns and settles into the chair, the sun covering her like a blanket as she curls into a little black ball; and I sit opposite her while the sun massages my shoulders and rubs my temples and sometimes even holds my hand while I contemplate life, bills, freelancing, family, more bills, global warming and other things.

I click, point and skim through the headlines of the day on my lap top; I should be spending my time otherwise.

I was reading of other's triumphs and trials and bizarro-ness all while purposefully avoiding my own life when I heard a buzzing above my head. My porch is enclosed by a clear plastic covering with grooves, which if painted blue, might resemble the type of rippled waves of the ocean caused by a passing motor boat that are choppy and tiny by the time they reach your feet. There, in one of the plastic grooves was a honey bee. It was flitting about; its fuzzy black and yellow body hopping from one buzzing wing to another as though it were on a hot griddle. I rose, and peering under it through the plastic roof, I could see its tiny feelers frantically waving up and down in distress.

I could tell it was dying. I've skimmed enough headlines to know.

I felt helpless as its legs slowly started to curl underneath itself in that awkward triangular way. I reached up to gingerly touch the bee through the hard plastic, hoping I was offering some sort of comfort as its head dipped forward into a ball.

I held my grandma's hand as she lay dying in the hospital of ovarian cancer. I wasn't there for her final breath, but I was there while she withered away with each passing breath that eventually lead her to the final one.

The bee stopped moving so quickly. The buzzing grew quiet. I kept my fingers there. Hoping. But like the precious time with grandma, where I hoped something else would happen other than what was inevitable and beyond my control, it expired.


    

Cherub Chasing.

The little boy roared. His arms were raised, hands spread, like the hands of a monster. His round caramel face was that of a cherub even when trying to frighten the children he was running after on the McDonald's play land. As he ran, his little feet, stuffed in socks and rugged gladiator sandals, pattered about on tiptoe which made his actions that much more amusing to watch.

He was having so much fun.

I sipped my black coffee as I watched them through the glass, unable to hear the shrieks of the three long-haired, blond brothers my little cherub was chasing.

But he wasn't my cherub at all. He belonged to the man whom he ran to for a hug when he tripped over his own stomping sandals. He belonged to his baby brother who he kissed clumsily before returning to play and left to rest peacefully in his stroller next to the dad. He belonged to a momma who wasn't there. He didn't belong to me.

Still, I watched him and thought about what if he had.

Love Hunger.

It's feast or famine
When I examine
How
I love.

She thought about tattooing that to her arm today.