Queen of the Desert

Reptiles have never been my thing. It’s not that I dislike them, I just lean toward the soft, furry pet variety.

Which isn’t to say I don’t respect the heck out of them – which comes with the territory of living where reptiles (some deadly) are commonplace. I remember my first rattlesnake encounter in Durango. I had just gotten new bike pedals and was working out the kinks, when I had to make an unexpected dismount up a punchy climb. The shoe on the right popped out, but the left one stuck like Gorilla Glue. Try as I might to pry it free, it was no use. I had no choice but to remove my foot from the shoe – still attached to the pedal  – and do the walk of shame to the top.

It was at this point, as I hobbled sock-footed up the steep incline, that I heard the strangest bird. Except it wasn’t a bird – it was a rattlesnake near my left, unshod foot. At this point, it was just The Sock Guy and a couple inches separating me from a certain demise.

I can’t remember what happened next, as I likely blacked out. But suffice to say, I lived to tell. As for the rattler, it possibly took pity, letting the idiot in one shoe pass, as she obviously was already having a very bad day.

Or perhaps it knew that, as a child, I once ran home and told on the neighborhood boys for torturing gardner snakes. Or that I am still traumatized by the time I accidentally ran over a snake with the lawnmower.

I guess I harbor a certain compassion for snakes and other members of the reptile kingdom. You try going through life close to the ground, with short or no legs, living in a hole with your entire cold-blooded existence dependent on the whims of Mother Nature.

Fortunately, I did not have any more close encounters of the reptile kind until recently. In the span of just a few days, I came across both a giant bull snake (harmless, but gave him his space) and another rattler, sunning itself on a rock (gave him a LOT of space.)

Perhaps this is why, a few days later, I was unfazed to come across a very large lizard on a trail near my house. She looked at me side-eyed – because that’s really all lizards can do – but did not scurry away, even at the sight of my dogs. Luckily, she went undetected by them, and I quickly shooed them by without incident.

As I made my way home, I began to go through my mental Rolodex of reptiles. She was too big to be a horny toad. And the way she calmly looked at me, as if to say, “Was’sup?” was curious. Then it dawned on me: that lizard did not belong there. I got home and immediately consulted the Google oracle, which turned up: bearded dragon, aka “beardie,” native to Australia.

How this poor animal got from Down Under to a hot, dusty trail in Colorado is beyond me. But the most likely scenario was that she was kept as a pet until she was no longer wanted and dumped on the trail to “be free.”

Needless to say, I started to panic – it was only a matter of time until she met her fate at the jaws of a more astute dog or the wheels of a pack of Devo kids.

I considered using a 5-gallon bucket and rubber gloves to rescue her. But then what? I already had two dogs and a cat – I had no business adding a beardie, no matter how low maintenance, to the menagerie. 

So – even though I knew it was a long shot – I called Animal Control. “I know this is going to sound weird, and I swear I’m not crazy,” I prefaced the woman on the other end of the line. “But I live downtown and just found a bearded dragon on the trail.”

Luckily, she did not think I was crazy, and within a few minutes, “Joe,” from Animal Control, called me back. I arranged to meet him and his partner, who I’ll call “Beyoncé,” because she was a total badass, at the trail. We walked a couple hundred yards to the spot where I last saw Priscilla Queen of the Desert, which I had now taken to calling her in honor of one of the greatest cinematic exports from her homeland. After poking around through the bushes to no avail, I think Joe and Beyonce started to suspect that maybe I was crazy. And that’s when I spied Priscilla, camouflaged under the shade of some tall grass. Beyonce and Joe came over, and we all gave each other that uncomfortable “Uh, you wanna grab her?” glance. Then, without a second thought, Beyoncé crouched down and gently scooped up Priscilla, sweet as a kitten. She gingerly turned her over, and we saw that life in the wild had not been good to Priscilla; she had a small but ugly wound. 

They put her into a crate, and I handed them the baggie of lettuce, red peppers and dog treats I brought (as we had no lizard food on hand.)

By now, I had grown maybe a little too attached to Priscilla, likely an outgrowth of my crazy dog ladyness. I implored them to please keep me posted on her fate. And, if Priscilla died, to lie to me.

A few days later I got a text from Joe: “A local vet did surgery on her. She is now at the Fish Connection and expected to be fine.”

But how did I know he was telling me the truth – especially when I told him not to?

A few weeks later, I dropped by the Fish Connection to check on Priscilla. But she wasn’t there. The kind lady who worked there told me they tried to keep her going, but after several trips to the vet, she succumbed to her injuries – likely a result of being out in the elements for too long. 

And then, right there in the middle of the Fish Connection on a Tuesday afternoon, I started to cry. I thanked the woman for all she did and left, because who cries over a lizard that was not even theirs? (Apparently, the same crazy people who also name them.)

I guess I was hoping for a happy ending – that Priscilla would get taken in by a lizard-loving home, to sun herself in a big window and eat real lizard food. But instead, I was confronted with the reality that, despite all the good people who tried to help her, there are a lot of really shitty ones, too. The kind who think it’s perfectly OK to abandon their defenseless pet on the trail. May they suffer the worst kind of reptile dysfunction ever.

As for Priscilla, I hope on the other side of that rainbow bridge she is living her best life as Queen of the Desert.

– Missy Votel