Prompt Entry 7

My favorite thing to do as a boy was search for animals in my mother's garden. Before I became interested in birds, I was most intrigued by the reptiles. The tiny brown anoles that scurried around everywhere. The brilliant green anoles that blended perfectly into the foliage. The geckos in the carport that would sometimes sneak in the house. The thin black ring-necked snakes that sometimes came out at night.

My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.

Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.

I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.

Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.

One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.

I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.