dojacham
New Member
Dear Chameleon Forum,
I’m reaching out to this community for some comforting words after losing my dear friend Doja.
I sadly discovered this forum only after putting my sweet (and of course grumpy) veiled chameleon Doja to sleep last month, but it’s been immensely helpful reading your deeply emotional stories about the chameleons you’ve all loved and lost along the way.
Doja Chameleon came into my life in the winter of 2020. She was a rescue from a nearby PetCo; in truth, I had only stopped by the pet store to pick up some cat food for my senior girl. Doja had been encased at PetCo for six months, and no one wanted her! I truly had no intention of welcoming a chameleon into my life that day, but when I saw Doja in her enclosure in the middle of store, we shared an instant connection. She placed her little hands on the glass and got my attention, I asked to meet her and placed her on my shoulder… and the rest was history.
It was clear right away that Doja did not want to be placed back inside an enclosure. So after some researching and YouTubing, my partner and I were able to design a “free-range” habitat in our bathroom, comprised of a jungle-gym of crisscrossing multi-colored bungee cords and hanging pothos plants. We always kept the bathroom door closed, but inside the bathroom, Doja was free to roam wherever she liked, moving from her basking lamp and UVB bulb to her favorite plant spots. She loved climbing to the top of shower and pooping from the highest altitude possible; she also loved meditating by the stained-glass window in the late afternoon sunlight.
Our first year together, she seemed more curious about life and her surroundings. She would regularly climb onto my shoulder or arm for a free ride around the apartment. She would take naps on my chest. Sometimes I would take her outside in the sunshine and place her down on the grass – Doja would immediately turn her “escape colors” and try to bolt for the nearby woods. I would let her go the distance but would always scoop her up before she disappeared in the wild and return her to the bathroom.
Doja lived in her free-range environment for four years. As the years went on, Doja grew more comfortable in her bathroom jungle and less interested in human contact. She fully accepted me during feeding and shower misting time, but otherwise, it seemed like she wanted to be left alone. I would greet her in the morning, feed her five crickets or an occasional plump juicy horned worm (Doja would literally quiver in anticipation on a horned worm day), mist her, and then give her a little salute and we would both go about our days.
And then this past December, things took a turn for the worse. I noticed her behaving strangely with her face pressed against the soil of one of her plants. Then she started losing grip strength and sleeping in precarious positions. One afternoon, I found her on the bathroom floor – she had fallen from her plant and had turned dark colors and was holding on to her back legs with her front. Her grip strength vanished almost entirely after that. I set up towels and blankets in the bathtub and rearranged the bungees to ground level, but she could barely right herself and spent multiple days lying on her side. It was horrible for me to watch, and I’m getting emotional now writing about it.
Doja’s decline happened quickly in about a week. In the end, I decided to give her a peaceful end rather than let her suffer any further. The night before her scheduled euthanasia, Doja and I spent some quality time together. I placed her on my chest and we cuddled in the living room on my bean bag chair. We listened to three music albums together – Fleet Foxes, Flaming Lips, and some Beethoven classical (Doja loved music). She let me hold her; I’m not sure what she was thinking or feeling but I wonder if she knew the end was close.
Putting her to sleep was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I can still see her little body in my lap in the vet’s office, drifting off into twilight on her heating pad as her consciousness left her body and the light in her eyes dimmed to cloudiness.
And to be honest, I’m having a hard time healing from this event. Did I make the right choice? Should I have tried to fight for her more, running her through tests and diagnoses? I tried to make the best decision, but I find myself filled with doubt and guilt and remorse. I can’t stop thinking about Doja, I can’t stop crying, and I can’t help but feel her absence every time I step into the bathroom and she’s not there.
I miss you, Doja.
I’m reaching out to this community for some comforting words after losing my dear friend Doja.
I sadly discovered this forum only after putting my sweet (and of course grumpy) veiled chameleon Doja to sleep last month, but it’s been immensely helpful reading your deeply emotional stories about the chameleons you’ve all loved and lost along the way.
Doja Chameleon came into my life in the winter of 2020. She was a rescue from a nearby PetCo; in truth, I had only stopped by the pet store to pick up some cat food for my senior girl. Doja had been encased at PetCo for six months, and no one wanted her! I truly had no intention of welcoming a chameleon into my life that day, but when I saw Doja in her enclosure in the middle of store, we shared an instant connection. She placed her little hands on the glass and got my attention, I asked to meet her and placed her on my shoulder… and the rest was history.
It was clear right away that Doja did not want to be placed back inside an enclosure. So after some researching and YouTubing, my partner and I were able to design a “free-range” habitat in our bathroom, comprised of a jungle-gym of crisscrossing multi-colored bungee cords and hanging pothos plants. We always kept the bathroom door closed, but inside the bathroom, Doja was free to roam wherever she liked, moving from her basking lamp and UVB bulb to her favorite plant spots. She loved climbing to the top of shower and pooping from the highest altitude possible; she also loved meditating by the stained-glass window in the late afternoon sunlight.
Our first year together, she seemed more curious about life and her surroundings. She would regularly climb onto my shoulder or arm for a free ride around the apartment. She would take naps on my chest. Sometimes I would take her outside in the sunshine and place her down on the grass – Doja would immediately turn her “escape colors” and try to bolt for the nearby woods. I would let her go the distance but would always scoop her up before she disappeared in the wild and return her to the bathroom.
Doja lived in her free-range environment for four years. As the years went on, Doja grew more comfortable in her bathroom jungle and less interested in human contact. She fully accepted me during feeding and shower misting time, but otherwise, it seemed like she wanted to be left alone. I would greet her in the morning, feed her five crickets or an occasional plump juicy horned worm (Doja would literally quiver in anticipation on a horned worm day), mist her, and then give her a little salute and we would both go about our days.
And then this past December, things took a turn for the worse. I noticed her behaving strangely with her face pressed against the soil of one of her plants. Then she started losing grip strength and sleeping in precarious positions. One afternoon, I found her on the bathroom floor – she had fallen from her plant and had turned dark colors and was holding on to her back legs with her front. Her grip strength vanished almost entirely after that. I set up towels and blankets in the bathtub and rearranged the bungees to ground level, but she could barely right herself and spent multiple days lying on her side. It was horrible for me to watch, and I’m getting emotional now writing about it.
Doja’s decline happened quickly in about a week. In the end, I decided to give her a peaceful end rather than let her suffer any further. The night before her scheduled euthanasia, Doja and I spent some quality time together. I placed her on my chest and we cuddled in the living room on my bean bag chair. We listened to three music albums together – Fleet Foxes, Flaming Lips, and some Beethoven classical (Doja loved music). She let me hold her; I’m not sure what she was thinking or feeling but I wonder if she knew the end was close.
Putting her to sleep was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I can still see her little body in my lap in the vet’s office, drifting off into twilight on her heating pad as her consciousness left her body and the light in her eyes dimmed to cloudiness.
And to be honest, I’m having a hard time healing from this event. Did I make the right choice? Should I have tried to fight for her more, running her through tests and diagnoses? I tried to make the best decision, but I find myself filled with doubt and guilt and remorse. I can’t stop thinking about Doja, I can’t stop crying, and I can’t help but feel her absence every time I step into the bathroom and she’s not there.
I miss you, Doja.
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