Friday, January 20, 2006


Stepping out the bathroom, I found it just fell from between the topside of the door and the door frame. A couple of seconds earlier, I heard a thud like a small soft, solid thing fell on the floor. There was it, half-squeezed, half-dead. I didn't know what to do. Just stood there, staring at it, feeling hopeless. I guessed in a moment it would stop dead, but even if it didn't I couldn't find anything to move it someplace else, or the courage to do it. After a minute I turned and left for my bedroom, with a load of guilt heaving on me.

In Samalona, there used to be an old Japanese guest, old but energetic and alive. While talking with us on the verandah of his bungalow, he picked up a gecko that just happened to be on the wall near him, stroked its head, tickle its chin (was it a chin?), and kissed it. That was too much for us. At least for me. He was so in with the nature. I could tell the gecko could sense his clear conscience, could see through his crystal-clear heart like the sea-garden of Samalona waters on a sunny day.

Call me naive, but envy is truly the right word. I always wanted to be liked by animals. In my early years, around three or four, my imaginary friends are all characters from the Hanna-Barbera cartoon series. Especially from 'Jabberjaw' and 'Laff-a-lympics'. So far I could get along pretty well with dogs. Even a certain dog in my junior-high teacher's house didn't agree with that. Now geckos. I really need to learn a bit of their behavior, how their tiny brain works.
One of them fell of the ceiling and down on my back years ago, but didn't stay there long. I didn't shake it off me; it just kind of bounced off my shirt. So much for a first encounter.

Maybe animals in 'to be liked by animals' was way too broad a range of species. Oh, and have I mentioned the sea-snakes and eels of Samalona? Well, that's another story.


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