I was away from Doright Manor for two weeks. During my absence Studly Doright took excellent care of the cat, did some laundry in interesting ways (Wash one’s nice shirts with the towels? Sure, why not?), and kept the house in surprisingly good condition.
But he didn’t do any weeding, so on Monday I took it upon myself to tackle some of the more offending weeds in the front yard. I’d just finished one section and turned my attention to an area on the side of the house when a vigorous rustling among fallen branches brought me to a complete stop. Snake? Lizard? I held perfectly still until this guy erupted from the detritus and scooted up the bricks.
My brain said “skink” and I mentally patted myself on the back. Not too long ago I’d have just called him a lizard, and while that’s perfectly correct, skink is more descriptive. He’s a five-lined skink to be even more specific.
Skink and I parted ways with neither being harmed by our encounter. I pictured him hurrying home to Google, or whichever search engine lizards use, to look for “humans“ and patting himself on the tail for immediately thinking “female.” We’re all on a learning journey, after all.