At 15 my life revolved around my three pet chameleons - they were my love and my responsibility.
I kept them in my bedroom. On my dressing table was a vase with fresh Port Jackson branches in it, with broad, flat leaves.
Every morning before school I would take the chameleons off their branches, wet the leaves under the shower, then put the chameleons back for them to lick the water up.
Every afternoon, coming home from school, I would find the chameleons had got off the dressing table, crossed the room to the window, climbed up the curtains and were trying to get out of the window. Which they could not do because of the flyscreens fitted to the window.
I was too stupid to realise that the chameleons were unhappy indoors, they wanted to be outside in the sun, wind and fresh air. I would then take them outside, feed them with the plentiful flies on the front porch, put them on the rose bushes to get some sun... but not enough.
These three chameleons were two adult females and an adult male which I had found on the hedge of a house in Rondebosch. In those days chameleons could be seen sunning themselves on many a suburban hedge in Cape Town. I abducted these chameleons and imported them to our house in Pinelands.
The Birth of Babies
Our house was in Pinelands, a suburb of Cape Town. The chameleons indigenous to this area are unique, being the only viviparous chameleon species known, the Cape Chameleon.
I noticed that Big Boy was looking to be in the family way, and one day coming home I noticed she was much shrunken. She had given birth. I found about 4 small babies under the bed, but could not find any more. A normal healthy litter of baby chameleons would be 15 to 18. This shows how her natural processes had been stunted by the unhealthy life style I was imposing on her. Not enough sunshine, fresh air and natural food, which is a wide variety of insects.
Not long afterwards, Coobal also gave birth. She was on her branch in the vase, and it happened right under my eyes. She deposited four babies, still in their transparent bags, on the branch and simply moved on. The babies wriggled out of their bags and embarked on their lives without as much as a greeting from their mother. This I suppose to be the normal pattern of birth, and was probably not much influenced by the conditions, but once again the size of the litter was abnormally small.
Some Observations on Human Nature
We are a species of mindless cruelty. Even highly developed artists like Ernest Hemingway kill animals for sport. I confess that, much as I admire his writing, I am glad he finally shot himself. Justice.
At 12, I was the same. I took my father's rifle with me to a farm, where I tried to slaughter some birds. I stalked pigeons, but they fled me and kept a distance which was too great for me to score a hit. But I managed to kill a tiny bird which was minding its own business on the grass in front of the farmhouse. The farm cat would not even look at the carcase. Why had I killed this bird? Sheer senseless vandalism and cruelty! But somehow, some realisation of my crime managed to get through my thick skull, I realised what a miserable creature I was, and I mended my ways. Never again would I shoot an innocent animal for no good reason.
When I was 15, keeping my chameleons, it finally dawned on me that I was doing them no favour by imprisoning them against their will. I took them to a very nice hedge in the old part of Pinelands, over a mile away, and released them back into their natural habitat. I never saw them again. But many happy times with my beloved companions, the chameleons, still lay ahead of me.