CXXIV. Rumble Butt Está Muerto. Larga Vida a Hugo.

Rumble Butt is Dead. Long Live Hugo.

We're pretty clueless about the genders I've inconsistently assigned in this story.

Rumble Butt died a few days ago. I knew something was up from the way he’d been acting; “listless” is the best word to describe it. And once it looked like he was gagging—arching his back in a strange way and then seeming to do pushups with his front legs. I think Little Buddy knew something was up too; I saw LB copy this gagging motion himself, and then scurry over to the Butt and nip his flank, which seemed completely out of character for the little guy.

So, yesterday when I found the big guy’s dead and tailless body next to the wall we were emotionally prepared. Already that day we had thought several times he was dead—not moving for an extended period, and once even, on his back with his feet in the air—but each time when I tried to enshroud him he kicked and struggled. It didn’t take too long, though, for the ants to sense what we had been anticipating. They were crawling all over Mr Butt when I shooed them away and wrestled his non-responsive body into the skin moisturizer box we were using as a coffin. 

We were sad. Rumble Butt had been a fixture on our bedroom terrace; every day punctuated for us by his sightings and activities, or lacks thereof. We’d share our observations and often try to engage him in recognition of our interest. And he did seem to return the attention, sometimes sticking his nose to the french doors, and one memorable time even scratching the glass as we approached. My partner also, and always, matched his (or is RB a her??) clicking calls. 

We buried Rumble Butt near Renza under the little clay Zapotec lady, inside her ring of lava rocks. I made the hole deep enough so we can inter the next of RB’s ilk in the same place. Our patio is getting crowded with the burial plots of deceased geckos. Two others have wandered onto the terrace, all arriving solo during successive Mexican winters. Each lived there for about half a year, until one day we found each dead, just as we had found Mr Butt.

Never a demonstrative lad, since RB’s recent demise Little Buddy has been making himself more scarce than ever. That could be a consequence of Hugo’s arrival. Hugo=huge is a large fellow, about RB's size through his sturdy orange-striped trunk but with a six-inch tall that the latter lacked. Hugo showed up mere hours after Mr Butt cashed in his quickness. Perhaps he’d previously been honoring RB’s territory.

We’re not too worried about Little Buddy, who originally appeared on the terrace about half a year ago—a fledgling the size of a small green bean. He’s got a private hidey-hole that’s accessible only through the narrow crack between the top and bottom of the wavy palm’s pot. He often used to pose there, half in and half out. LB has always been shy, although he gradually began coming out in the sun when The Butt was around—the two of them studies in patient immobility until a quick lick vanished one of the terrace’s large quota of ants.

We’re glad that the terrace provides a safe and bountiful space for our lizard friends. We liken the view it provides into their lives as akin to the ant farms we each had as a child. At its best it enlarges our knowledge of—and place in—the natural world and opens our hearts to its creatures. Admittedly, at present, we are a little put off by Hugo’s size, but already we look for him every time we go past the terrace doors. And so far, at least, Hugo and Little Buddy seem to be cohabiting peacefully.

Hugo. Perhaps it's because (s)he doesn't have the bruised vulnerability of tailless R Butt, or maybe just because we've only been acquainted for a few days, but we haven't warmed much to Hugo...and L Buddy has become more elusive.