I first saw him as I was putting my portable air tankup up for the summer. At first I thought he was a snake, “Omigosh! Mister no shoulders,” I thought. Then I saw it was a harmless brown lizard.
Since that time, we have become friends of a sort. Well, good enough friends that we don’t infringe on each other’s territory while drinking our morning coffee.
I named him Lucky.
Lucky is a sleek, fat, brown lizard who enjoys taking in the morning sun on my front porch. As far as I can tell a lizard’s age, I guess Lucky has been living here at Stonebroke Acres several years. I prefer to think of him as an old tenant and us, old friends.
Lucky is afraid of people. He lives under my front porch and comes out only to sun himself each morning, during the early hours. He lies there with his eyes closed until some sudden movement will send him scurrying back into the dark recesses from which he came.
He lies there on the porch awaiting the arrival of the many insects that come around my digs. He flicks out his rapier-like tongue almost too quick for the eye to see and he makes a quick breakfast of some unlucky gnat or fly that comes into his territory.
His reactions are instantaneous with insects and when I come too close he scurries away in a quick, brown flash. I like to think of Lucky as a bachelor or at least, a loner of some sorts. I’ve never seen him in the company of any female lizards. His chief pleasure seems to be laying there in the sun and dining on errant insect tidbits.
It’s impossible to tell if Lucky is happy or sad with the living conditions offered here. He has what some of my friends might call a poker face. His beady eyes betray no emotion. He just sits quietly with no expression. He would make a heck of a poker player.
But I am fond of Lucky. He’s much better than a pet dog. You don’t have to feed him or take him for walks. There’s no messy litter boxes to clean up, and he’s better company than a fish or a bird. He never pries into my affairs and he certainly doesn’t allow me to pry into his. And the best part, he never asks me where I’ve been when the
Yep, the same thing happened to me. I was enjoying that story too, typing away from an old newspaper from 1996, wrapping up the last paragraph of my dad’s story and that’s where it quit me. Right in mid-sentence. Right where I’m dying to know the rest. The story has no ending.
So I considered my options: abandon this story and never let others know what a great writer my dad was by the sheer fact that he can create a personality and 500 words for an average brown lizard. I decided against that. I looked through the rest of the paper for a continuation. Fail. I looked through the box of newspapers for the scrap piece from August 10, 1996 that might have the last couple of sentences. Fail. I thought I might just leave it “as is” and explain the problem to you my faithful readers. I considered making something up myself and pretending my dad wrote it, in turn deceiving you, my faithful readers, or I could ask my faithful readers to finish the story for me and my dad.
I have settled on the last option. So, show me your writing skills….how would you finish this line?
And the best part, he never asks me where I’ve been when the………………………….
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