And it's not like Houston is the richest or most diverse ecosystem. We just got a lot more space for a lot more trees and a lot more trees for a lot more critters.
This morning, I made myself a cup of coffee and walked out into my parents' backyard for a little stroll. Here is a list of animals that I saw while sipping coffee:
-four wasps
-two mosquitos
-one possum (or opossum)
-one cardinal
-some ladybugs
-two squirrels
-one bluejay
-one bullfrog
-two pigeons
-a million fire ants
-two june bugs
-one gecko
(Also, I saw three dogs, but to be fair, those dogs belong to my family and people in Chicago have dogs too, so it doesn't really count.)
Now here are anecdotes based on each of those. You can read them. Or not. Whatever, I don't care.
FOUR WASPS
Wasps are scary bitches. I saw four this morning. And two of those four were INSIDE THE HOUSE.
I trapped one of them in the bathroom and left it there for my sisters to find. The other I killed with a shoe box. Or I thought I did. I heard a loud, satisfying crunch (like biting into a piece of celery covered in Crunch Berries) and looked under the box. The damn wasp was still alive, squiggling and squirming, wagging its butt around, trying to sting me. Wasps are the Spartans of the insect world.
I played the trumpet in my high school's marching band. During one rehearsal, we were in formation, standing at attention (i.e. we were standing perfectly still, backs straight, instruments in front of us). If you broke the formation, you'd have to do push-ups. So I didn't want to break formation.
But then this big-ass bumblebee started buzzing around the trumpet section. It hovered a few inches to my right. I could see it out of my peripheral. Then it launched itself in my direction. Twice. THWACK. THWACK. Against my back. It was like being smacked with a hard-boiled egg. It didn't hurt, but I was scared I was going to get stung. And yet, I also did not want to do pushups. So I did not move. The bee buzzed away. Or I thought it buzzed away. I kept it in my line of vision and saw it buzz by the tuba section, make a circle around the clarinets, zoom past the saxophones and then head towards the trumpet section again. Right. Towards. Me.
I broke formation and ran off the field, swinging my trumpet behind me, trying to hit the bumble bee that was chasing after me.
The band director yelled at me through his megaphone.
"AL-FON-SO. WHAT ARE YA DOIN'?!"
I had to do fifty pushups that day.
TWO MOSQUITOS
When I was in El Salvador back in 1994, I was sitting in a hammock outside, eating a banana. The air was buzzing with mosquitos and I'd have to slap myself every few seconds because they kept biting me. My aunt came out, looked at me and said "Mosquitos like the blood of those who eat bananas." I shrugged my shoulders and continued eating the banana, swinging on the hammock.
I had two bananas on the flight over here yesterday. I already have four mosquito bites in the short time I've been in Houston.
Mosquitos do indeed like the blood of those who eat bananas.
TWO SQUIRRELS
This anecdote does not involve a squirrel, but rather what I thought was a squirrel.
I was late for school one day so I rushed through my normal morning routine. I ran out the door and was unlocking my truck when I heard a "SKREEEEEEE." I stepped back and then something dropped right in front of me. I thought it was a squirrel that had fallen out of a tree.
Turns out it was a snake eating a bat. I didn't even know that snakes climbed trees, much less ate bats. But that's what I saw.
ONE BLUEJAY
In 3rd grade, Travis Jenkins told me that bluejays were the meanest birds. If you ever went near a bluejay's nest, the bluejay would dive bomb at you, beak first. His uncle had to get twelve stitches on his scalp because he got fucked up by a bluejay. Is that true? I don't know. Ask Travis. But I do know I have not gone near a bluejay since he told me that.
A MILLION FIRE ANTS
Kayla has been trying to get better at basketball. She wants to join the basketball team when she goes off middle school next year. She's been walking around the house, dribbling between her legs and trying to post everyone up. We have a hoop, but it's lying on its side in the backyard and it's too heavy for my sisters to lift.
I wanted to set it up for Kayla, but as I was picking it up, I noticed that it was covered in little red dots. That were moving. All over the backboard. Then I realized what they were. Fire ants. I dropped the hoop and shook my hands in the air, waving them like I just don't care, but the truth is that I DO care, I care a lot because fire ant are the devil and their stings burn with the fire of two Tattooine suns. I did not want to get stung. The hoop rolled to the side, revealing a huuuuge fire ant pile. The ants rushed out, thousands of them trying to either attack intruders or rebuild their damaged home.
When Michelle was three, we were playing at a park. It was summer and we were all wearing shorts. Michelle didn't have any shoes on because she's a wild child and wanted to feel the blades of grass under her feet. We were playing tag. Michelle was it and she was chasing me, when she stopped. She looked down. I walked over to her.
Her legs were covered in red dots. Moving red dots. Swarming her shins, her calves, going up to her knees, spreading like an invading army. Fire ants. She looked at me.
"Ay. Ayy. Ayyyyyyy..." she said quietly. I started slapping her legs, trying to get the ants off of her.
Her legs were torn up, y'all. To this day, fifteen years later, she still has scars on her calves and shins from where the fire ants stung her.
Fire ants ain't nothin' to play with.
TWO JUNE BUGS
Once, as I was riding my bike around my neighborhood, a june bug flew into my mouth and I swallowed it.
ONE BULLFROG
There's a small river by my dad's hometown in Mexico. When I was four, my uncle took me and two of my cousins to go swimming. My cousins tore their clothes off and jumped right in with their wingwangs a waving in the wind. I didn't want to take off my Ninja Turtle undies. Because I was scared that tadpoles would swim up into my wingwang.
ONE GECKO
I was taking out the trash earlier and saw a gecko on the garbage bin, sunbathing. I snapped a picture and showed my mom and she ran away screaming.
I'm pretty sure my mom has herpetophobia. That's not a fear of herpes. It's a fear of reptiles. But my mom's only scared of small reptiles. Knowing this, I still showed her the picture of the gecko because I am a terrible son.
My college roommate, Leo, bought me a gecko for my 21st birthday. It was a leopard gecko and I named him Chimi. Short for 'chimichanga' because the color palette of his scaly skin evoked memories of a chimichanga covered with cheese and sauce that I once ate. Chimi was small and Chimi was cute and Chimi spent a lot of his time chilling on a rock, looking fly as fuck.
I'm not gonna front. I was scared of Chimi. Small animals that make sudden, quick movements give me the heebee-jeebees. A baby mouse entered our apartment last year and Delma had to chase it with a broom while I stood on a stool, pointing and screaming.
It was a thoughtful gift from Leo, but sometimes I wonder if he got Chimi more for himself than for me. He adored that leopard gecko. Leo bought it a heating lamp and placed little toys inside his terrarium and even gave Chimi the Duff beer can that he used to store his weed.
"Chimi can use it as a little hide out," Leo explained to me. "For when he wants his privacy."
Often, I would get back from class and find Leo sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and Chimi on the other.
I kept trying to interact with the gecko. I would put on rubber gloves and try to pick it up, but as soon as it darted away, I would freak out and try to rub the goosebumps off my arms. I managed to grab it by the tail once, but let go because that's where leopard geckos store their food and I didn't want the tail to break off. Leo would kill me if I ever hurt Chimi, even inadvertently.
Chimi's diet consisted of live crickets. I'd have to buy a bag of crickets from Petsmart every few days and just tip the bag into Chimi's terrarium. The crickets would pour out and hop around. I'd watch Chimi intently for the first few minutes after feeding him, hoping to catch him being a predator and tearing up some punk-ass crickets, but like a classy broad, he would never eat if someone was watching. Once, I caught the sight of Chimi with half a cricket hanging out of his mouth, but I never actually saw him performing the act itself.
One night, Delma and I went out for Thai food. When we came back, we thought our apartment had been broken into. The place was a mess. The couch was overturned, a lamp had been knocked over, the TV stand was in the kitchen... But the TV was still on the TV stand. Everything was out of order, but nothing was missing.
Then I heard a sobbing coming from Leo's room. I knocked on his door.
"Leo?" I asked.
"What?" he responded.
I opened his door. He was on his bed, under the covers, shaking and sniffling.
"What happened?"
"I lost Chimi." he said quietly. "I was giving him a bath because he was shedding his skin and I wanted to help him and... I fell asleep."
He gave a quiet sigh.
"When I woke up, he was gone. And I couldn't find him anywhere."
Delma and I looked around the apartment. There weren't many spots that Chimi could hide. Although the space under the door was JUST large enough for a tiny leopard gecko to squeeze through.
Leo and I moved out that summer. We expected to find a small lizard corpse as we were moving and were prepared to throw a Viking funeral. But we never did find Chimi's body. I like to think that he made a home for himself in that apartment complex, raising a family of little Chimis, always thinking of Leo for giving him a bath and giving him his freedom. But if I ever saw them, I'd probably freak out and run away.
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