Confessions of a Party Animal

My people had guests last night: late last night. I’ve met them all before, the bouncy one, the big one, the undernourished one, and the food one, but never all at once. My lady person and I shared a house with the undernourished one a couple of seasons ago, and I’m rather fond of the bouncy one. You never get the bouncy one without the big one, but he and I are on respectful terms. He knows I could take him if I had to.

My lady person woke me up for the party, as she always does—I’m a guest of honour at such events—despite my apparent distaste. I hiss and grumble and carry on, but she insists on my greeting the invitees every single time. Actually, I love parties. I’m allowed to walk around on the carpet, everybody tells me how beautiful I am, and I usually get fed. If my lady person realised this though, she’d probably stop bringing me cheese to ‘sweeten my temper’. Keep it coming, Mother.

I’m a particular hit with the ladies. They exclaim over how cool or smooth my scales are, cuddle me up to their bosoms for warmth, and generally think I’m sexy. And they often smell like flowers. That’s not to say I don’t have guy friends too. They tend to already know that I’m not slimy, so most of them reckon I’m quite awesome.

Some people won’t come near me, but I’m not greedy. I don’t need to rule the whole world.

I retired to my log when the people found something to drink that, frankly, smelled off to me. They seemed to enjoy it well enough. I kept an eye on things to make sure it didn’t get out of hand, but they all just giggled for a few hours and behaved themselves.

I heard whispers of another party next week, and it sounded like they had another lizard on the guest list. I might investigate.

I've just been informed that today's my lady person's dad's birthday. I hope you get cheese at your party too.

Cheque, please,

Mikey.