When my daughter was around seven years old, she was invited to a birthday party and needed a gift. I asked her what her friend liked and the answer was “bearded dragons.” I thought, wow. That is so specific! But, okay. Off to Michael’s I went, knowing they had a nice variety of plastic animals and figures. I dug through all the fantastical dragons they had but could not find any that resembled the Chinese dragon I believed would be the closest to looking like a dragon with a beard. Eventually, I found one and felt fairly successful until I brought it home and showed my daughter and partner. I proudly held up the plastic little bearded dragon only to be met first, with blank confused stares, and second, with laughter.
“A bearded dragon is a type of lizard!” they explained, “She has a pet bearded dragon!”
“Ohhh” I said. I had no idea this lizard existed.
I used to poke fun at people who kept reptiles as pets. I had chameleons growing up and loved them, but there is something different about grown folks who collect lizards and snakes. There is an intensity of spirit. Their eyes lock on yours and bore into your soul even in the lightest of conversation. A simple invite to their house feels shrouded in ulterior motives either sexual, satanic, or both. And why is it impossible for them to walk down a city sidewalk without their pets wrapped around their arms or perched on their shoulders?
But then came Francis. Francis is a bearded dragon we adopted when friends moved out of state during the early part of the pandemic. I thought Francis was cool from the beginning, but I was a hands off observer. He was neat living decor that I watched be fed and cared for by the other people in my household. I didn’t quite understand all the cooing over and conversing happening with this creature. Until I got breast cancer.