Doris and Me

There is Doris, the bearded dragon to my left clinging to the edge of a river tooth. She basks in artificial sunlight. Her natural habitat is the central desert of Australia. But here she is, glass-boxed and fed, artificially warmed, perched atop the knotted remains of a bald cypress, the tree that characterizes the bayou of Louisiana.

She’s sleepy. Cuddling the light, eyes drifting. Last night, she didn’t find the heated pad covered by sand near the giant snail shell. Instead she slept in a cold corner behind the river tooth. When I picked her up this morning, her body was chilly. I imagined she was happy to share some of my heat. Her tail relaxed, her belly pressed against my warm hand. She cocked her head several times, so that I fell in love with her and imagined she loved me too.

I hope Doris feels comfortable right now, warmed by the Repti Basking Spot Lamp inside Fluker’s Mini Sun Dome. I fed her a few meal worms earlier and she has a bowl of greens in her terrarium. I am sitting warm on this bed. Not long ago I finished a lovely meal of tuna salad on toasted sourdough. I’ll bake cookies then go to sleep after an episode of Deadwood. I’ll wake up with a sense of duty and I’ll write and I’ll research and I’ll fight the nagging suspicion that there is a wilderness within me I do not fully know.

Doris was bred in captivity. Her day is the warmth of ceramic heat emitters and the Reptisun 5.0. She has eaten crickets and fatty mealworms alongside carefully chopped pieces of kale. When she isn’t resting in the heat, she darts around the terrarium, past the shell I found in the swamp and the prairie dog skull I collected near the suburbs of Denver. Sometimes I know she’s stressed. I know, despite her physical needs being met, something isn’t right. Apparently this is normal after a transition.

To the right of the bed is a space heater. Sheepskin rugs meet my feet when I wake. The kitchen is filled with good food, plants and pictures of relatives. I eat well. I make love with a man I love. The city is beautiful. And when I watch her attempting to crawl up the side of the terrarium - glass surfing they call it - I relate. It’s a stress behavior, possible response to irritation at seeing her reflection. 

I am not a lizard. Yet I feel like I am inside a comfortable box. Where is the wild? Where is the end of my reflection shining from polished glass, through computer screens and selfward pointing telephone cameras? Where are the faculties I need to survive in a wild I was built for, but will never know?

Here safety is paramount. In our world it becomes increasingly difficult to connect in real time with the (often wonderful) strangers that surround us. I want to explore. I want to know what I am capable of, what this body can do, can feel. I want to understand how to take care of myself outside of the terrarium and I want to sleep over and over again under the stars. 

What do we lose to a lack of risk? What are we sacrificing to feel always comfortable, safe, at ease? I’m not at ease. I’m glass surfing up the sides of a translucent boundary I don’t know how to cross.

Maybe we can do it together. Maybe we can challenge one another, find the courage to feel awed, adventurous, sexy and capable. I can only make Doris feel more comfortable, but we, we can step outside the reflections of ourselves.