Nonfiction

          You’re sweating and swearing as your twelve-year-old daughter cries beside you. “Sam,” she says between sobs. It’s been over an hour and you’re no closer to catching the reptile than you were at the start.           Sam, a baby leopard gecko, no larger than the orange salamanders you used to find in creeks as a kid, decades and thousands of miles from here. He’s somewhere inside a printer, having slid in through the paper shoot when your daughter let go of him. He’s been the family pet for less than two hours. You have tried everything to carefully pry open the machine–one snapping piece of plastic will take him out. You tell your daughter you need to take a break, your shirt is sweat soaked and you have work to do. Despite being at home, you’re leading a department and an hour away from your email in the middle of the day is an eternity. She cries harder. This situation is a disaster.

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          It’s one or two or three a.m. and you can hear your daughter crying. She’s three, or four, or five, or maybe even seven or eight. You know exactly what’s wrong. She’s itchy. The eczema patches on the back of her knees and creases of her elbows rubbed raw. You go and lie with her, whispering, “Don’t scratch” and telling her a story. Eventually, she drifts off. You hope against hope that she’ll awake in the morning with no memory of the interlude, though the droplets of blood on the sheets from the worst spots may serve to remind her. You return to your bed and lie there feeling guilty and small.

          Aren’t parents supposed to protect their children? Take away their pain?

          Over years of scratching, you have developed violent feelings when strangers, well-intended to be sure, offer suggestions like, “take her off dairy” or “wear light cotton clothing” as if the problem were solvable with one swift change.

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          You and your wife are on the sofa, it seems as if you’ve been there forever, having no notion that the lockdown is in its infancy and that you have months and months to go. Your not-quite-twelve-year-old daughter approaches with her laptop. “I want you guys to watch something,” she says, hesitation in her voice. It’s a PowerPoint pet proposal. Your girl, the girl who suffers from eczema and asthma, who loves animals and has always been desperate for a pet which exists behind the confines of a fish bowl. The show is of high quality. In addition to her artistic flair, she’s done substantial research. The first candidate is a pig. No, hard no. But a good case is made–easier to train and cleaner than dogs. Still, there’s no way. Next up is the hamster. Another no. Been there, done that. Possible allergens aside, hamsters have not fared well in your home, your daughter’s optimism notwithstanding. In fact, there are several buried in your bottom of the backyard, which houses the family’s pet cemetery. The last candidate is a leopard gecko. It’s quiet, maybe friendly, presents no allergy issues, and seems manageable from a care perspective. You and your wife look at one another. Yes. Your daughter looks incredulous, and then emotional. You smile at her. She needs this. You only have a small sense of how much. Within a year, she’ll be diagnosed with depression and anxiety. Her ups and downs will drive the emotional state of the household for some time.

 

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          You answer some emails and ask your daughter if she has any schoolwork to do. Zoom school, through no one’s fault, is mostly a disaster. She has nothing to do and wouldn’t be in any state to do it in any case. She’s crying and just staring at the printer. You consider the possibilities. 1.) Sam chooses to exit, one of you catches him and all will be fine. 2.) Sam escapes uncaught then runs around the house until he dies. 3.) He just stays in there until he starves. 4.) He’s already dead. The odds are not looking good for Sam.

 

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          When your daughter is nine, you become obsessed with the idea of getting a dog. You rationalize that her eczema is improving and there’s reason to believe she’ll age out of it. You quickly hone in on doodles, the breed with the best combination of temperament and hypoallergenic properties. You spend hours looking at various breeders’ sites as well as the pets section in Craigslist. A rust-colored puppy in the Bay Area catches your eye, but that’s an eight-hour drive away. Each photo stirs the imagination. You’ve never used an online dating site and wonder if this is what it would have been like. Then an ad catches your eye. A litter born in Vegas to a woman undergoing a serious medical issue. The puppies need to be adopted immediately and a friend is taking them to Orange County, an hour and a half away. Sort of a rescue situation. You talk to your wife but you know what you’re going to do. In less than 24 hours, your daughter is holding the eight-week-old puppy and you’re both in love. Ginny, your daughter names her, comes home with you and you begin to learn about housebreaking, training, and the joys of Ginny. Your daughter is overjoyed. You spend hours walking with your energetic new family member. For almost six months all is well. The trouble starts at night. Your daughter comes to your room for her inhaler. She’s done this before, no problem. But then it’s a second time and a third. And then it’s regular, a few times a week. You had asthma as a child; you can’t bear to hear her wheeze though you know she’d suffer through daily asthma attacks to keep Ginny. You can’t let that happen. You and your wife break it to her. Ginny goes to live with friends, true dog lovers. You can visit her anytime and meet for walks at dog beach. But it’s heartbreak.

 

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          You’ve discovered that there are two reptile stores in your city. The family goes to ‘Animal Kingdom’. You see exotic fish, tortoises, scorpions, pythons, and bearded dragons. A guy buys dead rats to feed his snake, and another, crickets to feed his – something. They have leopard geckos. Your daughter chooses a baby. The employee gives you the rundown on what else you need to buy–a tank, plastic rock structure, heat lamp, carpet, and decorative items. You buy it all. She is so happy. Leopard geckos can live more than fifteen years. On the car ride home, you joke that your daughter will need to take Sam to college. “What if I can’t keep him in my dorm room?” she says. You and your wife laugh, maybe your future is to be empty nesters tied down by a leopard gecko. Everyone knows a child’s pet will turn into the parents’ pet as the kid’s social interests expand. What would you possibly do with a leopard gecko?

          Leopard geckos eat live mealworms, not too appealing but much better than rodents. You get home and set up the tank. You leave your daughter downstairs to acquaint herself with her new scaley companion. But then you hear her cry. Sam is in the printer.

          You go upstairs and tell your wife it’s hopeless. She won’t have it. “You have to get him out. Find a way.” You grab a large screwdriver and a hammer. Regardless of Sam’s future, you decide the printer will not survive this experience. Your daughter looks scared when you come in with the tools. “I have to take this thing apart, there’s no other way,” you say. You look for screws somewhere. There are none. You start with one of the sides. With risk to both your fingers and Sam’s life, you manage to pry it apart and then pull it off with a large cracking sound. Your daughter gasps. “You don’t have to watch,” you tell her. Your patience is fried and you’re starting to sweat again. Inside the printer, you see spindles, wheels, ribbons, and no Sam. You start in on the other side. It comes off with another crack and you see how you can remove one of the inside components. You pry with the screwdriver, hold your breath, and pull. The piece comes out leaving a gaping hole. Out of the hole comes Sam. Your daughter grabs him. He’s in her hand. You see her face relax for the first time in hours. Now, you want to cry.

 

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          It’s been four years since the printer episode. Sam is fully grown, healthy, and much too big to slip into any crevice remotely that small. His tank has been upgraded to a bigger size which seems irrelevant since he spends most of the time in his rock, but your daughter showed you “literature” which said a larger space was imperative for his development. Sam’s solid, stable. Occasionally he wanders around and, when given new mealworms, eats lustily. Your daughter’s emotional state continues to vary but with maturity, therapy, and lots of time with friends, the line is clearly trending up.

          Whenever you begin to wonder if she even thinks about Sam, when your wife has to remind her to feed him and clean the tank, you find her with Sam in her lap. They both look content.