It began as a normal morning — coffee in hand, keys in pocket — until I noticed something under my car.
At first, I thought it was a plastic bag. Then it moved. My stomach sank as scaly skin, claws, and a ridged snout slid into view.
It wasn’t trash at all. It was an alligator, massive and out of place in my quiet suburban parking lot.
Neighbors walked dogs, kids waited for the bus, and panic surged as I realized how close they were. My hands shook as I called animal control,
warning everyone to stay back. The scraping sound of claws on concrete made my chest tighten,
but when the gator dragged itself forward, I saw the truth — it was badly wounded, bleeding from its leg.
Fear gave way to pity. I stood between it and the crowd, pleading with officers to help, not harm, the animal.
After nearly an hour, animal control sedated and removed it. Later, they told me it wasn’t wild
— it had escaped from an unregistered private facility nearby that had lost animals before.
That night, staring at the empty lot, one thought haunted me: what else was being kept so close to home?
