SOME PET LIZARDS.
BY CATHERINE C. HOPLEY.
Those who live near commons and turfy heaths may in the spring-time espy the lizards peeping cautiously out from among the weeds to court the sunshine after their winter’s sleep; or, on a warm day, boldly flitting across the grass, but hiding again on the slightest alarm. Much may the amateur naturalist find to interest and amuse him in these tiny lizards; to admire also, for their colours are often very beautiful, their eyes bright and watchful, their form and actions anything but ungraceful. Among these native lizards, the Slow-worm (Anguis fragilis) is included—the ‘deaf adder’ or ‘blindworm,’ as it is commonly but wrongly called. As a pet, Anguis fragilis has many recommendations. Small, clean, unobtrusive, inoffensive, and easily fed, are more than can be said of most pets: domestic qualifications which, indeed, may be extended to its little four-legged cousins, the British lizards, often found in the same habitat, and all of which can be caught and transferred to a large glass bowl with ease and satisfaction. One of the bell-shaped glasses with a perforated knob at the top answers capitally. Reversed and furnished with moss, turf, and sand, the hole serves for drainage, because water is indispensable for the lizards, and the moss and turf should be sprinkled occasionally. A stand into which the reversed glass fits can be purchased with it, and a large china plate completes the arrangement, which, with its pretty occupants, is an ornament for any window or conservatory.
By an accident, I soon discovered that a slow-worm—my first and then only pet reptile—requires water. Knowing that it fed on slugs, I was hunting in the garden, and at length found some small ones under a flower-pot saucer, and conveyed them undisturbed to a place in the cage. The slow-worm soon discovered the addition, but instead of selecting a slug for supper, began to lick the cold, damp saucer, putting out its tongue repeatedly, as if refreshed; and forthwith the saucer was reversed and filled with the beverage, which the little reptile soon lapped eagerly, continuing to do so for some minutes. After this discovery, fresh water was supplied daily. That little creature became quickly tamed, a fact which her history will easily explain.
‘Do you want a live viper?’ a friend in the Reading Room of the British Museum asked me, one day.
‘A viper! Here?’
‘Yes, a deaf viper. It was caught in Surrey last week. We had a field-day.’
My friend was a member of a Natural History Society, as was also the gentleman who had found the so-called ‘viper.’ His hobby being geology rather than zoology, he had been breaking and turning over fragments of rock in a sort of dell, when he had discovered the harmless little creature, which he—a scholarly man, by the way—would have immediately put to death, as a dangerous viper, had not my friend—also a learned man, though not versed in snakes—reserved it for me, and with much caution transferred it to a tin box. It was subsequently consigned to a bottle, and tightly corked until I could see it. My friend now promised me he would not put the ‘deaf viper’ to death, as his lady relatives were daily entreating him to do; and a few days afterwards, he shook out of its narrow prison on to my table—not a viper, but a feeble slow-worm, the poor little thing having had no food during those eight or ten days of captivity. No wonder, then, that the half-famished reptile grew easily reconciled to an improved home with fresh grass and moss and other luxuries, and soon learned to recognise its preserver. Soon a companion was brought for it, one freshly caught and full of health and vigour. This one was not so easily reconciled to a glass house, and only by slow degrees would it allow itself to be taken up and handled.
Another year, my saurian family increased to nine, including all the three British species, and all living amicably together in one large bell-glass. I will not trouble my readers with the nine names by which the nine lizards were known in the domestic circle. Scientifically, they were Anguis fragilis, Lacerta agilis, and Zootica vivipara; the last so called from its giving birth to live young. Anguis fragilis also produces its young alive; or, as in the case of one of my own, in a membranous case or ‘shell,’ quite entire, but easily ruptured. The specific name agilis has been applied to the larger lacertine; but a more agile, swift, and flashing little creature than Zootica vivipara can scarcely exist; so that the true names of these three species of lizard are not, after all, so truly descriptive. Zootica is much smaller, and must have acquired its astonishing celerity protectively, the wee animal having no other safeguard than in flight. And its suppleness equals its activity. Caught and held in the closed hand so tightly that one almost feared to crush it, it would nevertheless turn itself round, or rather double itself completely back and escape the other way, where no outlet seemed possible; or between the fingers, where you least expected. It is extremely restless and timid, and less easily tamed than lacerta. One of my zooticas had a peculiar dread of being handled, and was so ever on the alert, watching my slightest approach, and looking up sideways out of one eye, and with its head on one side in such a bird-like manner, that it acquired the name of ‘Birdie.’ Birdie seemed guided by intellect more than any of the family; and the devices she practised in order to escape me, when she anticipated my intentions to get hold of her, were truly intelligent. She vanished somewhere, but presently you caught sight of one bright eye peeping up from the depths of the moss, as if saying: ‘Ah, I know what you’re up to!’ Perhaps I did try to circumvent Birdie somewhat heartlessly, just to observe her manœuvres. She would peep at me and watch me through the glass, when I was sitting far away and had no intention of going near; but at last she learned to stay in my open hand, and I sometimes suspected there was as much play as fear in her hiding.
The lizards were also thirsty little creatures, and eagerly refreshed their tongues by lapping the wet moss, until they learned to lap out of a saucer. The male lacerta is of a handsome iridescent green, pale and delicate on the throat and belly, and a rich dark colour on the back. Lacerta is easily tamed. It soon learns to settle itself comfortably in a warm hand, and is quite appreciative of caresses in the form of a gentle stroking with the finger. In intelligence, both species certainly rank above Anguis fragilis; they more easily recognise the voice and the owner of the voice, looking up when addressed in the peculiar tone which was reserved for lizard training.
A large and handsome female lacerta that lived in a smaller glass by itself, escaped one day, and fell out of the window near which it was placed. It must have sustained some internal injury, and had, no doubt, suffered from cold and terror during the two days and nights it was lost, until found on a neighbour’s balcony. I had reason to suspect she would soon deposit eggs, but she grew gradually thin and feeble, refusing food, and was evidently suffering, though showing no outward appearance of injury. It exhibited a strong desire to climb against the side of its cage, or whatever upright surface it was near, and remain in a perpendicular position; or if it could find no such leaning-place, it threw up its head and thus held it, as if to relieve itself of some pain. Then, more and more it kept its eyes closed, or opened them only to seek some object against which it could rest in that perpendicular position. As winter approached, I allowed the little sufferer to lie on a table near the fire, and covered it over for warmth; but it never remained contented on the level. Though its eyes were usually closed, whenever I spoke to it in the peculiar tone with which it was familiar, it invariably opened them and came towards me. If it could not reach me, it would even jump from the table to my lap in order to gain its favourite perpendicular position on my dress, where it remained quiet until removed. It grew more and more feeble, until one could scarcely detect life in it, except in the effort to open its eyes and try to approach when I spoke to it, and this to the very last.
These little lizards are easily procured; and I trust the perusal of these memoirs may induce some kind and patient individual to try them as pets, when it will be found that their sense of hearing and intelligence is in no way exaggerated.
Lizards cast their skins at uncertain intervals during the summer, being greatly influenced by temperature. One very warm season, when they were much in the sunshine, mine changed their dress on an average once in three weeks. Some of the sloughs came off entire, even to the tips of the tiny, delicate fingers, like a perfect glove. Sometimes they were shed in fragments. The head shields are not regularly renewed with the skin, which was always reversed. Anguis fragilis on one occasion cast its skin entire and unreversed, a very unusual occurrence. All begin at the mouth, as snakes do; and you will see when the process is about to commence by the little creatures rubbing their mouths and their heads against whatever they are near, the loosening cuticle no doubt causing irritation. To watch the process is exceedingly interesting, especially when the lacertines free their limbs of the old garment, shaking off and dragging themselves out of it as you get off a tight sleeve.
A word about the voice of lizards, on which so much has been written. That these do utter a sound is certain; but it is very feeble; though, perhaps, in comparison with their size, not more feeble than the hiss of a snake. And only when much disturbed and annoyed do they ejaculate even this little sound, which is as if you half pronounced and whispered the letter t or th. Sometimes it resembles ts, only audible when quiet prevails. Both the lizards and the slow-worms expressed their displeasure by this same little expulsion of breath, scarcely to be called a hiss. But once when a slow-worm fell from a high stand to the floor, there was a singular sort of loud chirp or chuckle, as if the breath were forced suddenly from the lungs by the fall. It was wholly unlike its regular ‘voice,’ and was so remarkable, that if it had not been ejaculated simultaneously with the ‘flop’ on the carpet that announced ‘Lizzie’s’ fall, I might have thought a young bird or a frog was in the room. The slow-worms often got out of their cage and fell to the floor, seeming to be none the worse; but only on this one occasion did I hear the breath escape so audibly.
Recommending them as pets, it is important to say that they all like a change of diet; and herein lies the chief difficulty of keeping them, except to those who have gardens or who live in the country. Anguis fragilis will content itself for a long period on worms, but these must be fresh; and it enjoys a slug or a small smooth caterpillar for a change. But the lizards are more fastidious, as is perhaps natural; for in their wild state they catch such insects as are in season, and have a choice of these. In the suburbs of London, I found them glad of such varieties as could be procured from the shrubs in a garden, or by digging; and small worms, caterpillars, spiders, or insects were in turn eagerly pounced upon. ‘Birdie’ was particularly quick in detecting a rarity and in being first to seize it. Flies are liked by the lizards, but not by the slow-worms, the latter preferring less dry food. Centipedes were rejected by common consent.
The difficulty of meeting the dietetic requirements of certain pets reminds me of another pair of lizards that in turn inhabited the bell-glass. These were brought from Brazil, and introduced to me by the name of Taraquira Smith. An i or two should perhaps terminate and dignify the latter name, to commemorate the particular Smith who bestowed it on Taraquira; but Smith is simple and practical; and the Taraquira Smiths was the name of my two little Brazilian lizards. The smaller one measured about eight inches from the snout to the tip of his slender tail; the larger one was ten or more inches in length. They are, however, less agreeable to handle than the previous pets, their tails being armed with very finely-pointed sharp scales in whorls. The lizards seem to know how to use this long tail protectively, having acquired a habit of retrogression, and when held, of backing out of the hand, as if with the intention of pricking or inconveniencing you with these sharp spines, which are thus converted into weapons of defence. When persistently held or detained, the pricking effect caused by this backward motion is by no means agreeable. For food, they were provided with a supply of a peculiar kind of cockroach, which infested the reptile house at the Zoological Gardens of London, near which I happened to reside; but my two little foreigners persistently declined them and any other equally tempting food. Indeed, the poor little Smiths were in such a feeble condition from exposure to cold during their transfer from the ship to their glass home, that the smaller one soon died. On the voyage, they had been kept in a warm temperature; and at the Reptilium they have been preserved by artificial heat. It was December when mine arrived, and though in the daytime they could be made comfortable near the fire, during the night a regular heat could not be maintained; notwithstanding, at the risk of suffocating them, warm woollen wraps were folded round and over the glass, to keep the frosty air from them.
When the smaller Taraquira died, redoubled care was bestowed on the survivor, but unfortunately, we could not transfer the Brazilian climate to a London residence, and my Taraquira Smith only lived long enough to display that peculiar and yet not vicious instinct of letting you know that its tail was armed throughout its entire length with those sharp prickly scales.
One more lizard-pet deserves an obituary notice.
‘I have a horned toad from Texas down at my office,’ said an Ohio editor to me, when I was visiting in that State. ‘Will you like to call in and see it, when you pass that way?’
The reader will surmise that a very short time elapsed ere I did ‘pass that way;’ and my friend the editor bade me welcome by beginning an immediate search for the ‘horned toad,’ which apparently was allowed the free run of the office. Has the reader ever been introduced into the office of a Western newspaper editor? A chaos of ‘exchanges’ is its principal characteristic. You wonder how one man in a lifetime, much less a week—this was the office of a weekly paper—could look over and ‘scissors and clip’ from that astonishing miscellany. However, the object now was to hunt up the toad, not news. Exchanges in compact piles and loose piles were moved from shelf to table and table to shelf; exchanges half-opened and unopened, exchanges already clipped and thrown under the spacious table; papers filed and papers not filed; books and magazines in vast piles to be reviewed; ink of all colours in bottles of all sizes, some full, some empty; penholders and pencils enough to kindle a fire; paper-knives, scissors, rulers, and clips anywhere but in their natural places; and as for manuscripts, advertisements, and advertising books—from the size of a bath-towel down to the daintiest card—not to mention samples and offerings presented to the influential man in order to win a good word in his paper (here is the office-boy with another armful by the mail just in), and ‘copy’ enough for six months’ use scattered about! All these things were moved, lifted, separated, swept on one side and swept back again, turned over again and again; but no toad rewarded that amiable editor’s search. ‘Toads like damp,’ I suggested, while offering my small aid in picking up a shower of literature which my friend scattered in his haste. ‘The poor thing can scarcely feel comfortable among this wealth of information and so near the stove.’
‘Well, it is an improvement on a boy’s pocket, anyhow,’ returned the erudite man. ‘I rescued it from a boy who had been carrying it about in his pocket for a whole fortnight. His uncle, just from Texas, brought it for him to play with. It was here half an hour ago, for I saw it,’ continued the editor, rummaging a shelf of exchanges for the fourth time. ‘It’s half dead anyhow; for horned toads won’t eat when they’re caught. Do, pray, take a seat.—Why, there he is!’ and down on the floor, in a dusty corner behind a chair which the editor drew out for me, was a poor, pretty little saurian, with a pointed tail, and a cornet of spikes round its head, which gave it a quaint and decorated appearance.
‘It is not a toad after all!’ I ventured to explain; but belief in vernaculars is strong.
‘Maybe it’s a frog, then; there are horned frogs, too, in Texas.’
On a first glance, the reptile has somewhat the appearance of a frog or a toad (with the addition of a tail). Its body was broader for its length than is usual in lizards, and its head was short and flat, looking all the more so for the horny spines, which stood out like a frill. The poor little half-dead thing was too feeble to struggle, and too thickly coated with dust to display any other than mud colour. From its long fast, it was merely skin and skeleton, painfully concave beneath. I gladly accepted it from the editor; and on reaching home gave it a bath, letting it remain in the water, and douching it thoroughly, which seemed to invigorate it, as it tried to crawl out of the basin, and opened a pair of bright black eyes. Gradually, its markings and true colour appeared, and it turned out to be an exceedingly pretty iguanian lizard; but, as my friend the editor had with reason said, it is generally known in Texas as ‘the horned frog’ or ‘the horned toad,’ or scientifically, Phrynosoma cornutum.
It now already gave signs of recovery, and when placed on its back, could right itself, and even crawl, and was a quaint, pretty little creature, worth preserving. But a tremendous obstacle here arose. There were young ladies in the house, and had they known I had surreptitiously brought home a toad to ‘sting them with its poisonous horns,’ the consequences are too appalling to conjecture! Such a terrific creature of four and a half inches long, tail inclusive, to be introduced into the family circle! So Iguana and I kept our secret; and I slyly smuggled a large, empty flower-pot into my room, and lined it with fresh grass and a clump of turf from the garden, and had the pleasure of seeing the poor little stranger nestle in it with evident satisfaction. I got its mouth open and gave it water, which it swallowed readily; and by-and-by administered a few flies, one at a time, which it also swallowed; and at night it crept under the turf. Next day, it meekly swallowed more food and drink, similarly administered, and was so greatly strengthened as to try to climb up the side of the flower-pot, then standing in the sunshine. This great flower-pot and its inmate caused me continuous alarm. When any one was expected in my room, it was hidden in all manner of places; but when there was no danger of interruption, it could stand on the window-ledge, fortunately hidden from outside view by a veranda beneath. And in this way Iguana lived for many days, during which it rapidly improved. It is not surprising that such reptiles do not eat in captivity. Their habit is to pursue insects, and swiftly too, or to pounce upon one that takes its fancy; and no half-dead fly or amputated spider thrown into its cage would excite its natural instincts. But this queer little animal submitted to be fed in a ludicrous manner. Without much difficulty I got its mouth open; and after suspiciously swallowing the first mouthful, it took the second and third as passively as a baby fed with a spoon. In this way it ate four or six insects a day, varied by a few drops of water or the soft pulp of a grape.
When my visit in Ohio was terminated, Iguana was secretly packed in moss in a little flat box and put in my bag; and the huge empty flower-pot was left outside the window, to excite the wonder of the curious. The friends I next visited knew nothing of ‘horned toads’ and their ‘venomous spines,’ and all alarms were forestalled by my saying: ‘I have such a pretty little animal up-stairs—a tame lizard which was given me at B.’—‘Oh, do let us see it!’ was the encouraging reply; and when duly presented in my palm, whatever natural shrinking the ladies might have felt, was over-ruled by the ‘queer thing’s’ evident harmlessness and its undeniably pretty coat. And now it was made happy in a large birdcage with a carpet of turf and moss; and when placed in the sunshine, was—in unexaggerated language—‘wild with delight.’ My hopes were to feed and strengthen it for another week or two, by which time it might be safely consigned to a box and to hibernation. But—and it is sad to end this little history with a ‘but’—there came at the beginning of November some very warm days, and the sun had so much power, that when the cage was placed in the window, Phrynosoma must have imagined itself back in Texas. Only twenty minutes elapsed, and when I looked again, it was gone! How it could have squeezed itself and its long spikes between the wires, surpasses comprehension; but gone it was!
Great was the commotion throughout the house. The square of grass plot which separated the house from the pavement, and the neighbours’ front gardens, and the flights of steps leading to the street, and all the gratings, possible and impossible, were hunted over by the united family, neighbours included. Pavement, road, and cellars were carefully searched by my good-natured cousins, after, of course, every inch of the room itself had been well examined. We felt sure that the sunshine would have enticed it outwards, and we began to think poor little Iguana must have fallen a victim to some dog or cat, when one of the family, who had been out walking, came hurrying home exclaiming: ‘Why, here’s your lizard! I found it on the pavement wa-a-y up the street, with its mouth all bleeding!’
Strange that, in a public thoroughfare, it had escaped at all. Several of its horns were broken, and its mouth was wounded internally, giving evidence of a violent struggle against the wires of the cage. It must have partly pushed its head between them, and found difficulty in extricating itself, going sideways, and then falling from the window on to some iron bars beneath. The jaw and teeth on one side were much injured; for when, after this, I attempted to feed it, it struggled violently and swallowed nothing more.
It never regained sufficient energy to attempt another escape, but always held its head sideways, as if stiff or in pain; and after four or five days, poor little Phrynosoma cornutum died, and was buried.