Ramona, my son Henry's bearded dragon, arrived in our home three Christmases ago. My husband and I relented in response to an extensive lobbying campaign arguing that bearded dragons are amazing pets, complete with YouTube evidence of happy little lizards riding around on their owners' shoulders, scurrying after treats and being generally delightful.
Ramona is not generally delightful.
Beardie enthusiasts suggest training them with chunks of fruit. Ramona hates fruit. Owners often accustom their beardies to handling by giving them luxurious baths. Ramona hates baths.
Beardies are "highly social, friendly, animated, curious," according to an animal hospital website touting their excellent qualities. Ramona is... not.
Like most pet owners, we've imagined a personality for her, and everyone in the family occasionally fills in her side of the conversation. (Most pet owners do do this, right?) Ramona's "voice" is something like an Eastern European-inflected version of Eartha Kitt. Her typical responses are "ugh," "whatever" and "screw you, human."
Earlier this year I wrote exuberantly about how my dog helps me believe in unconditional love. What, I've been wondering since, could I learn from Ramona? My first few ideas fizzled. (The power of glaring at people? The protein benefits of eating crickets?)
Then she began to brumate.
Brumation is like hibernation for cold-blooded animals. Despite her warming lamps, Ramona senses winter is coming. She loses interest in food (even crickets) and retreats to a corner of her tank, becoming what Henry calls a "sleepy, angry puddle of lizard."
On a recent Sunday morning, Henry marched into the living room to report that Ramona had briefly opened her eyes and given him a look that said, quite clearly, "Get the hell out of my sight, human," before going back to sleep.
I glanced up at him from the couch, where I was curled under a blanket, still in my pajamas, scrolling through terrible news stories on my phone while basking in the full-spectrum lamp that's supposed to take the edge off my despair on the long, cold North Idaho days when the sun sets at 4 pm.
Oh, I realized, I know how she feels.
This time of year is packed with encouragement to be very awake and very happy. Get out the glitter and ribbons! Turn on all the lights and be joyful, already!
And yet we all feel more like being pissed-off puddles of lizard sometimes.
Beardies are "highly social, friendly, animated, curious." Ramona is... not.
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The morning that Ramona chased Henry out of his room with that look was the first Sunday in Advent. I grew up associating the season with candles and countdowns, but as an adult I've learned to embrace its two-sided nature: Yes, we feel anticipation and joy as we approach Christmas. We can also feel fear, anger and grief as we acknowledge the ways in which the world waits in darkness.
I don't know anyone who hasn't spent some time in that darkness these past few years. It doesn't matter whether it's sparked by personal loss or a glance at the state of the world as a whole. We know more heartbreak will come, as it always has, and each of us will contribute to it, no matter how hard we try not to.
Ugh. Screw you, humans.
But we can't elbow out the darkness of the world by faking happiness or manufacturing joy. If you attempt to wake up a brumating lizard by turning up the lights and tapping on the tank, you're more likely to hurt it than help it.
On the days I feel like Ramona, I remind myself how much my family adores our misanthropic little lizard. We gently, quietly care for her as she gets the rest she needs, knowing she'll wake up in a few months and keep delighting us with her un-delightful ways.
We all deserve that kind of care, whether we're bubbling over with joy, angry and exhausted, or somewhere in between. No one has to be loveable all the time to be loved.
We can embrace each other in our Ramona moments, watching out for each other through the darkness, sharing, regardless of faith or creed, the promise of hope: The days will lengthen, the sun will return. Sometimes we just have to wait. ♦
Tara Roberts is a writer and educator who lives in Moscow with her husband and sons. Her novel Wild and Distant Seas is forthcoming from Norton in 2024. Follow her on Twitter @tarabethidaho.
