Lizardy Kitchen

Having lived in Florida for a while, I’ve become accustomed to the beautiful sunsets, the gorgeous weather, and the lush landscapes. But I’ve never gotten used to the sight of those lizards clinging to my window screens.

I was on the phone recently with my next-door-neighbor when I saw a tail dash under the chair I was sitting on. I shrieked into the phone and pulled my legs up.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” my neighbor cried.

“Oh, one of those lizards is in my kitchen!” I said.

“I had one in the house the other day, too,” she said. “I pushed him out with a broom.”

I got off the phone and returned to the scene with my broom, prancing like an elf in case he darted under my heels. He was under the table. I swiped the broom under, not far—I didn’t want to smush him, just scare him out of there. He didn’t move. I swiped again, and finally I pushed the bristles gently against him. He was an expert at playing dead. He wasn’t leaving on his own; I was going to have to remove him myself.

I took a see-through container from the cupboard and turned it upside down over him. Sliding a thin piece of cardboard under it, I now had him trapped. He was scrambling inside and leaping against the walls. I screamed all the way outside, sure he was going to escape and crawl up my arms.

I made it to the front yard and let out a loud whoop when he popped out.

Throwing her second-story window open, my neighbor from across the street leaned out.

“Are you okay?” she yelled, phone in hand, ready to dial 911.

“LIZARD!” I hollered.

She snickered, then closed her window.

They tease me now about my squeamishness and I laugh right along with them. After all, I heard one of them scream at a snake last week.