Papa Y La Iguana (Dad and the Iguana)

Papá was a tall handsome man. The Spanish blood of our family ran deep through his veins. He had light brown hair and hazel eyes. All the women loved him. Yet, he chose my mother, Bertha, with her darker coloration, short stature, and thick and wavy tresses of hair. Why? I don’t know. I like to think its because she was the only one patient enough to deal with all his craziness. He was in such good health all the time, though. People would ask what was his secret to his good health.

One day when I was about 10 years old, I was playing with an iguana in the front yard after I’d finished my chores. My Papá came home and asked where I had found the iguana.

I said, “He came up to me. His name is Panchito.” He said to me, “Give it to me when you are done.”

I said, “Yes, Papá.”

I thought maybe he would let me keep it as a pet and that he simply just wanted to take a better look at it.

So when I was done, I brought it to my father.

My father grabbed it by the tail from my hands. My poor iguana wriggled in his hand straining to be free.

My father walked through the veranda of the house and out the door into the back yard. He swung it onto a table behind the house. Before I could realize what he was about to do and protest, he took a knife out from his belt and slit his throat.

He finally let go of Panchito’s tail and went inside the house. I watched the poor iguana squirm and wriggle as the blood spilled out of his neck onto the shabby little wooden table. He kept squirming as if still trying to get away. He turned from his left side onto his front and it looked as if he would fall off so I rolled him back onto the table. I didn’t want him to die in the dirt. He looked me in the eyes.

My father came right back as I rolled him onto the table and he said, “Gracias mija.” He had gone inside for a shot glass. Why a shot glass, I thought. Then, he took a shot of iguana’s blood as if it were a shot of tequila straight from Panchito’s neck, since it was still squirting onto the dirt from the table. His legs were still twitching a bit.

He smacked his lips and let out a gasp of satisfaction.

“Bertha!”

“Que quieres?” What do you want?

“ Ponte a cocinar esto. Quiero caldo de Iguana.” Cook this. I want Iguana stew.

“Allí voy.” Coming, she said.

Panchito’s legs finally stopped moving. I watched the light go out in his eyes as my father grabbed him from the tail and I watched him hand him off to my mother, blood dripping everywhere onto the dirt backyard and then into the kitchen floor.

My mother looked mad. She said, “You should have let his blood drain outside before you brought him in!”

“I want you to save the blood for that salsa you made last time.”

My mother nodded and took him to the sink where she put him in a giant plastic purple bowl so his blood could drain. His tail was hanging out of the bowl.

“Turn on the stove. We’re making Caldo de Iguana con salsa,” my mother said.

Later, when we were all sitting at the table, my father asked me for more tortillas. I said, “Yes papa.” I got up to make more. I took the bowl where my mother made me put the iguana’s skin and threw it outside in the trash and washed the bowl. I grabbed some flour and threw it in the big tacky purple bowl with some water. I just hoped the entire iguana flavor was gone when I made the tortillas.

Years later, when I had a daughter, I found myself wanting to tell her this story after I had given away her dog.

“But mom! That was my dog! Fifi was like my baby!” My 22 year old daughter had tears in her eyes.

Oh yes, it was. Fifi was a small brown Chihuahua that I had given to her as a Christmas gift back in high school when she was 16. But she was never home anymore since she enlisted to be in the Navy. It was my fault, but I couldn’t keep the little dog cooped up in the house anymore. I was working night shifts at the hospital all the time and my son was more interested in playing video games than in walking the Chihuahua or picking up her poop everyday in the house. One day, I had finally had enough.

I told my friend, Mac, to give her away to somebody that wanted her and could take care of her. What he didn’t tell me was that he gave her away to a stranger at a park.

“Yeah, just forget about her…. Turn the page,” he told me when I asked whom he had given it to.

“Where is Fifi?” my daughter asked me.

“Shes fine. A nice family with kids and a backyard adopted her.”

“I feel like you’re lying.”

“I’m not. Don’t be obsessed with a dog. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I will never forgive you for this!” And she stormed off and got back into her car and drove back to San Diego where she was stationed at the time being.

I just didn’t have the heart to tell her what really had happened to the dog. Truth was, I didn’t even know. It wasn’t as if I had slaughtered her, though.