The Dingo and I teamed up to rescue a baby gecko. It was high up on the big-ass wall.
The Dingo has a certain chortle she sings when a critter, be it a roach or a lizard, is in the house and I haven’t seen it. It’s like Lassie telling anyone Timmy’s in the well, except it usually involves bug spray and a whole lot of screaming.
Me: Where is it, girl?
Me: Oh. Up there. *calculates height, speed, distance, which piece of Tupperware is needed to catch it*
Her: *leaps as high as she can* It’s too high!
Me: Stop. I got it.
In one magnificent move, I climb the couch and trap the baby gecko under the has-been-microwaved-too-many-times container. Sliding a probably-important piece of mail under it in order to transport the pink wee thing back to where it belongs, the Dingo sits kind of patiently while I talk to the critter like a lunatic, “There ya go. OK. Back outside.”
Yet another successful save. Sure, the Dingo wanted to eat it, but not this time, pup.
Not this time.