Living in Asia often means living with reptiles. God knows how they get in the house, because I certainly don’t. I have a frog who lives in the mango leaves adorning the front door. Each morning when I open the door he gets dislodged from his sleeping quarters and lands at my feet with a loud splat on the cold marble floor. I’m waiting for the day when he lands in my coffee cup.
There was the 5 inch long slug (or was that a leech?) whose slime trails I have spotted on floor, lounging decadently on the bathroom tiles one night late. I sent him promptly out to sleep in the wet grass.
This morning the neighborhood cat running from rowdy dogs peels through the open window, past the boiling tea kettle and jumps up to the highest available safety, on top of the kitchen cupboard. After this dramatic entry, she solemnly regards Mr. Caramel, the house cat, and I, who are sitting quietly in meditation. After a moment of acknowledgement, we carry on with whatever we were doing, which is precisely nothing.
Later, an afternoon friend (who does not jump from my mango leaves or lounge on my bathroom tiles) and I buy a bouquet of flowers to offer to our lunch hosts.