RIP Baby - mummy loves you

I brought so many tales home from our weekend in Dublin, I really don't know where to begin. But I can't begin any of them until I post this obituary to Thumper (or The Baby, as he became known to us): our beautiful Australian Bearded Dragon lizard, who passed away in his sleep during the evening of December 2nd.

I was introduced to Thumper on May 22nd 2006; Michael's gift to me, on my 42nd birthday. Thumper was 41.5 years younger than me - a tiny lizard baby, a little scrap of a thing no bigger than my outstretched palm. But gosh, he was beautiful even then: delicate yet sturdy, mysterious and prehistoric - a living, breathing artwork; a miracle in my hand.

I knew little - if anything - about the habits, traits or personality of this young, ancient being. He came complete with his own little house (a vivarium), with a heater and a UV light to replicate his ancestral climate. We gave him a log to climb on and hide under, and a stone on which to bask. He had a little pool in one corner, and a food dish in another - not that he ever used either much. Instead, he quickly learned to eat out my hand (parsley and green beans - not the live crickets he was also partial to) and, not long before he died, he'd developed the habit of turning his face towards me as I sprayed him with fresh water from a bottle, loving both the refreshment and, I believe, the attention. And yes, he did love attention - he loved me and Mike, just as we loved him.

Thumper and I had our own routine. Nearly every morning of his time with us, I was there when he woke up, before his UV light automatically switched on: "Good morning, Baby, and welcome to today". Those wise eyes - the colour of Lyle's Golden Syrup - would open, those long, intricate fingers would stretch. Sometimes, he'd leap up onto his log and nod frantically - an adult Beardie habit, hilarious to watch. But not before he'd had breakfast: the beans and parsley (with occasional chunks of orange pepper, another favourite food) followed by crickets: scatter, chase, crunch. Sometimes, he'd come out to play for a bit. We'd offer him a flat palm - often covered by a towel as he got older, and his scales became scratchy - and if he felt like it, he'd climb out and allow himself to be carried down to the floor, or the bed, from which point he was allowed to go on his own little voyage of discovery around the room or even the house, closely followed by mummy, who kept an eye out for danger or forbidden crumbs from last night's dinner. He would sometimes waddle along like a little tank, or roll like a drunken sailor. He'd occasionally attempt to aimlessly climb shiny surfaces which offered his nails no purchase, only to slide to one side looking confused. Once or twice he pooed on the floor, another time on a pillow! But never, ever did he do anything wrong.

I have to be careful here, because my impulse is to go on and on with tales and anecdotes and memories - forgive me if I've gone on too much already. But what I'm trying to explain is how much I loved that little miracle mate of mine. To me, he was eternally fascinating, and amazingly beautiful. He was proof of life personified; an initially strange little creature - almost alien, really - in an unnatural environment. And yet, we forged an indescribably close bond, almost spiritual in nature, and absolutely bursting with love.

Thumper died long before the average Beardie lifespan of 12-18 years. The vet can't tell me what he died of; there were no signs of illness or infection, distress or - god forbid! - neglect. All we know is that he died in his sleep, while I was away in Dublin. His strong, golden-green body is buried under a bush in the garden of Mike's house in Bristol, a parsley plant nearby. But I know that somehow, he's everywhere; he's a golden ball of light, bouncing along on the wind, tasting rain, watching the sun rise, exploring life beyond his vivarium and his rock and the pillow he once pooed on. Behind those amber eyes, there was an evolving spirit bursting to move on. I like to think I helped his spirit breathe.

I can't thank Mike enough for the gift of Thumper - he gave me the gift of love. Even now, as sad as I am, I wouldn't change a single moment of the precious time we shared. Goodnight Baby, and god bless - mummy loves you, and will keep you safe in her heart for always ... until we meet again.