The Story of George, and Martha
I decided against trading my lizard for the good karma jewelry and instead took him home and named him George, after the randy dinner guest who brought him.
I bought George a terrarium and filled it with foliage and little logs to climb up and down on, but George was lonely. So I brought home Martha and recast them as the ferociously married couple of Edward Albee's play, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
(Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton scream and insult their way through the movie version of this play, in quintessential Housewife style.)
Martha seemed good for George. They ran and wrestled and chased. I occasionally caught Martha lying on George in what looked like a tender post-coital moment. They were young and in love, I thought. They had their whole lives ahead of them. That is, until they didn't.
One night I came home to find Martha bent and splayed at unnatural angles. She wasn't breathing. I called Louie, the pet specialist from Petland where I'd found Martha. He came right over. Louie examined her and gravely delivered the news: Martha's neck was broken – violently, as if she'd been hurled against a wall. Like, maybe, a glass terrarium wall! Louie also noticed something about George. There were abrasions and cuts on his legs and abdomen, and bite marks on his neck. Louie had seen it before -- these were tell-tale signs of lizard abuse. Like their namesakes, Martha and George had been engaged in a gruesome and pathological dance. But then Louie made a more startling revelation. Martha was a boy!
Suddenly, I had a juicy scandal and potential homicide on my hands. Was it an accident? Did Martha careen into the glass in a frantic attempt to escape or was it murder and made to look like an accident? We may never know. George succumbed to his injuries the following week.
RIP George You were a Good Man.