My first tokay gecko was purchased on a whim. I was living in Albuquerque, NM, just out of college, living back home while looking for work with no idea of where I'd end up. I made one of my regular trips into the only pet store in town that sold reptiles, and came eyeball to eyeball with a tokay gecko.

For someone whose lifetime experience with lizards had been limited to whiptails and what we called sand lizards (Uta sp.) the tokay was breathtaking. Money changed hands (I think the gecko cost $6.95) and I went home, proudly bearing my new treasure in a brown paper bag. I had a glass-fronted cage made from a dresser drawer leftover from my high school days, so I dug the cage out and set it up. I opened the bag with the gecko inside and placed it inside the cage. Pretty soon Fido Fidas Fidarae, Fido for short, came out of the bag and clung enchantingly to the back wall of the cage. I sat and watched him. He was something to look at, grey with powdered blue and deep red tubercles.

I knew nothing about geckos, and no idea Fido was nocturnal, although his large eyes gave me a basic clue. When he didn't immediately drink from his water dish, I was worried because I knew that reptiles need water. I opened the cage, covered my hand with a hand towel (I'd been bitten by race runners and knew lizards could nip) and picked him up. I offered him fresh cool water, streaming from the bathroom sink. He thanked me by turning inside the towel and latching onto the very end of my index finger. I saw stars. I tried to free my finger by pulling gently. He tightened down so hard his eyeballs sank in. I took him into the utility room and tried to gently pry his mouth open with a screwdriver. His jaw bent alarmingly and his eyeballs sunk in.

The two of us wandered around the house, my free hand supporting the lizard/hand/towel combination. I wondered what to do next, imagining the lizard as part of a bridal bouquet. I didn't even have a boyfriend at the time, but it was beginning to feel as if this lizard was going to be a permanent attachment. I returned to the bathroom sink, filled it partially with cool water, and stuck my lizardhand, already a single word in my vernacular, into the water. To my numbed delight, Fido let go. I drained the sink, covered him with the towel, and picked him up carefully and returned him to his house.

I moved to Florida a few months later, and Fido went with me. He lived for years, drinking sprayed-in water droplets from the sides of his tank and feeding on thawed, frozen mice. He took them with such intensity his eyeballs sank in, and it always made me flinch.

Things turned out OK for me and Fido, but the moral of this story is simply know what you're getting into before you plunk down your cash.

Your fingertips may thank you.