Poor Little Skink

Gotcha

Digging in the full bucket o’ slops for the last time until I return in August, I heard a little noise, and saw a flash of blue under my shovel. A baby skink wriggled in the dirt. When I picked ‘er up, she struggled less than usual (I sometimes do go for skinks, just to see if my hand is fast enough).

After a couple of photos, I went back to the compost heap and laid the thing down…and she moved a bit but not much. Dragging her tail, and her infintessimal back legs not functioning, she buried her head and forearms in the soft dirt. Her blue tail stood out, an improbable jewel.

Lifted the tail with a thin twig and it dropped back down, inert.

Oh, dear. I broke her back (I hope with the shovel, which was inadvertent skink mayhem, as opposed to capture, which was idly purposeful).
Feeling sick.
Then I remember: there are much bigger paralyzed creatures.

Does it matter, size?
No, eh?
Thought not.
I’m gonna go check and see if she’s moved more..

Yes. OK, she either got eaten, or dragged herself out of view, or …

I have to move my fingers across a keyboard, and force myself to hit “send” before nightfall on the longest day of the year.