My husband, Cal, quietly called me out of my office. “There’s another one,” he whispered. I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough there was a little brown and orange, four legged critter. He would be the forth gecko visiting us during the last six months.
The first one, sorry to say, met his end under my husband’s boot. Sorry! The second and third one I cajoled from a corner in the closet, all alone I might add, INTO my husband’s boot. I then deposited each into the leaves on the front yard.
This one was longer than the first three. Cal wanted to give him the same fate as #1. I said, “No, no! I will get a boot.” He said he would get a box.
Picture this: Two intelligent adults looking down at this tiny little gecko, Cal holding a cardboard box about twelve inches square, and me holding a brown cowboy boot. The poor little gecko doesn’t move; he is petrified. I but the opening of the boot close to him and hope he runs in. He doesn’t. He zips somewhere and I jump on the chair and Cal quickly backs away.
We move one chair; nothing. We move the other chair; there he is and off he goes, fast as lightening. Cal throws a book at him and it lands on his little back and slides off. I scream and run into the kitchen. I have my hand over my mouth as I peek around the corner to see if he is dead.
Cal pushes the gecko with his boot and traps him between his two big feet. I am creeping closer with my boot, and Cal said, “Pick him up with pliers.” I get the pliers, hand them to Cal and say, “You do it.” He said, “I’m not doing it!”
I wasn’t doing it either. I placed the boot on the floor and pushed against the gecko’s little body and thank God he ran into the boot.
As Cal threw his boot into the yard and stomped away, he shouted, “The next one I see, I am not telling you!” I retrieved the empty boot and laughed out loud – hard. We looked and acted like two idiots, and all over one tiny, little bitty, adorable gecko.
So much for a Ph. D. in mental health counseling.
Until the next time: Live while you live!