The slow-news tale of chilly iguanas falling from trees has been recurring for some years. In 2014 the NYTimes ran this “personal lives” essay by Anne Doten, “The Iguana in the Bathtub.”
The point to the exercise is that they tried to revive an iguana, but killed it instead. Which is a shame, because they even used a stethoscope.
Together we tiptoed toward the tub and peered inside the box. The iguana was still immobile, and its skin was pale, almost gray instead of green. The thing was dead. It was definitely dead.
John bent down and lifted the iguana’s cardboard coffin. Still in my pajamas, I slipped on a pair of shoes and opened the front door. Our funeral procession to the Dumpster was short and somber. I held the lid open, and John dropped in the box. The thud reverberated inside the steel tomb.
We stared at the Dumpster for a few moments. “I thought I could save it,” John said.
