Slippy, FringeBoy’s lizard, is having troubles. He slipped into a coma yesterday afternoon, maybe hibernation is a better word. I don’t know, but I do know Slippy is freezing to death. I may have to make the ultimate mom sacrifice and get on a one-way flight to the tropics with him.
This morning his tank was fifty-eight degrees, our predicted outside high for the day. He’s in a fish tank with a fish light over him and I thought that would keep him warm, but I doubt it since he’s been curled in a fetal position for eighteen hours. I admit I felt a little panicked. I don’t want any lizard slipping off to the great tank of abundant crickets on my watch!
FringeMan rigged some kind of light on the tank and now the temp is up to seventy-two degrees. Slippy’s up. He’s not doing the Salsa dance yet, but he opened his creepy little black eyes and he took a few wobbly steps.
I’m wondering if he’ll let me share his rock, because it’s the warmest spot in the house. FringeMan hasn’t rigged any sun lamps for me, no matter frozen my feet get.
I’m just wondering why we thought it was a good idea to get a tropical pet. It’s June and I really want to turn the heat on, but we live by an unspoken rule that says we won’t pay for heat in June, so I put a pair of socks and furry slipper on. By now the Freezemiser should be locked way in Arctic bliss, but he’s turning my June into a cold damp April. If the pet store knew their stuff, they be selling Alaskan lizards around here.
I cleaned a fish tank before breakfast and now I’m making a lizard feel all warm and fuzzy. Can my life possibly get any more exciting than this?
Tell me, what extremes do you go to for your pets?
If I buy this lizard a swimsuit and start making it slushies, intervene. Please.