The dead gecko

I was in the house two nights ago and just before I went to bed, I went to the front door and made sure it was locked. Our house has a wood floor with a small tiled area right in front of the door. As I was stepping off of the wood onto the tile, I felt a dry leathery strip under my foot. I checked it out quickly and didn't notice anything... and didn't think much of it because this is where everyone takes their shoes off before stepping into the house proper. The next morning, Diep was talking to the floor, or so I thought. She asked, "What happened to you?" and I saw she was talking to a dead gecko. The one I inadvertantly smooshed the night before.

For some reasons, I felt much worse about that than my practical mind tells me I should. Geckos in our house are plentiful and Diep hates them. Sure, they eat mosquitos in the house, but they also crap all over the place. Little balls of bug carcasses wrapped in gecko fecies! I know they can't help it, and it is partially our fault for not placing little inverted gecko toilets all over the walls and ceilings in the apartment, but nobody likes to see a gecko turd drop in their morning coffee, regardless.

Obviously the lizard outside of my office heard about the human brute who took out his gecko cousin. The lizard, commonly known as the fuck you lizard, gave me three good "fuck you"s the next day. Maybe he didn't really know, but it must be pretty cool to be a lizard that can belt out only two words that just happen to be "fuck you". I saw him one day on the roof of the adjacent building declaring his statement, when a cat went on the prowl... he almost became that cat's lunch. But so far, he has survived and I find it somewhat comforting that there is more than one creature in the vicinity of this building, namely me, who wants to belt out fuck you to the world every now and then.