By Elizabeth Speth
RIP, little lizard floating in the water trough, your pretty blue belly turned up to the sky.
I’d seen you around the neighborhood, under-supervised. I feared you might become a statistic.
We’ll never know if it was suicide, an accident, or murder.
Did one of the horses push you in? You can tell me.
Maybe you had a heart defect.
Is there a history of sudden death by heart attack in your family?
I am deeply sorry that when I tipped the trough and you flowed out, Angus the Jack Russell Terrorist snapped you up and started chewing you.
I was sorely grieved when he spit you out and began hacking disrespectfully.
I’m sorry I gagged as I dropped your several little pieces into that small hole in the ground, and covered you with hot, impersonal dirt.
I should have held it together better.
It was with acute regret that I saw Angus immediately begin to dig you up again.
I hoe you understand why I just had to walk away at that point. It was too much tragedy to bear.
A couple more days of these 110-degree temperatures, and the winds will be scattering your ashes.
RIP, little lizard, floating in the water trough.