Paco the iguana died. She was 14. Or maybe 15.
Aunt Robin took me out for dinner anywhere I wanted and then bought me anything I wanted (within reason) for my birthday every year when I was growing up. When I was 16, Aunt Robin bought me an iguana (not really within reason).
My cousin Jeff took Paco when I went off to college. Paco had her own room (yes, Paco turned out to be a girl) in his house. Paco was potty trained. Paco grew to be six feet long. Paco had the best life an iguana could have with Jeff, and her veterinarian had never seen an iguana live in captivity so long, a tribute to the care she received.
Paco was cremated, and someone took a bronze impression of one of her paws (claws?). Paco is gone, and she will be missed.
A haiku to Paco:
to the tropics in
the sky, my old lizard, good
thing you’re potty trained.