Gizmo and her MBD

Gizmo.

The name immediately brings Gremlins to mind (I’m showing my age a little here), and my Gizmo does not disappoint.

She is a five-year-old Indonesian Frilled Lizard, Chlamydosaurus kingii, and as beautiful as she is, she came with more than her fair share of problems.

Gizmo arrived in a box.

I was handed the container, told simply, “This is Gizmo,” and her previous keeper left — quickly.

No conversation about diet.

No details about enclosure conditions.

No mention of favourite foods, lighting, supplements, or routine.

No emotional goodbye.

Quite literally, a dump and run.

I opened the box and extracted a three-foot lizard who looked about as confused by the situation as I was.

As with any rescue animal, I began my usual intake process: initial observation, health assessment, and preparation for a two-week quarantine period in a sterile arboreal enclosure I had already set up in advance.

Straight away, something wasn’t right.

Frilled lizards are generally active, alert, highly interactive animals that make extensive use of vertical space.

Gizmo’s body temperature appeared sufficient for normal movement.

But she barely moved.

She watched me.

Her head tracked my movements.

Her forelegs were folded into her chest — almost as if she were hugging an invisible friend.

Adorable at first glance.

Concerning at second.

Neurologically, there appeared to be responsiveness throughout the limbs and tail. Joint mobility was present, but unusually loose. Her tail retained sensation but moved very little.

And her front legs looked…

wrong.

I’d had some warning before she arrived.

I thought I was prepared.

I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

After this fairly heart-wrenching realisation, I had to prioritise.

Not fixing everything.

Not solving MBD.

Just making Gizmo safe and getting her through quarantine while I developed a more realistic long-term plan.

Fun times.

The first decision felt completely backwards. I moved her from a 4 × 2 × 4 ft enclosure into what I affectionately refer to as a “4 flat” — a 48 × 18 × 18" enclosure. Under almost any normal circumstance, this would be one of the last enclosures I’d choose for a large semi-arboreal lizard.

But Gizmo wasn’t a normal circumstance.

At that point, vertical space had become a hazard.

The goal wasn’t optimisation.

The goal was stability.

I transferred her into what I hoped would be temporary accommodation and left her alone for several days to acclimatise — allowing her to settle without constantly fighting gravity.

Once she’d had time to settle, I tried feeding.

When introducing food to rescued or rehomed agamids, I tend to use what I call the smorgasbord approach: offering several feeder species simultaneously to maximise interest and provide choice.

For Gizmo, that meant:

• dubia roaches
• locusts
• Pachnoda grubs
• morioworms

Everything was presented in a high-sided feeding bowl to localise movement and reduce the effort required to hunt.

Gizmo didn’t even acknowledge them.

No feeding response.

No investigation.

No curiosity.

She barely reacted when the enclosure was opened.

So, I went back to basics.

I checked every parameter.

Basking temperatures sat at around 40°C.

Humidity followed a gradient, peaking around 70% in the morning and dropping to around 50% through the day.

She still had limited opportunities to climb safely.

Fresh water was available (although that would become relevant later).

UV provision was through a Ferguson Zone 3 T5 setup.

According to the books, I’d done what I was supposed to do.

And that was the problem.

Because sometimes husbandry isn’t just about whether parameters are correct.

It’s whether the animal in front of you is capable of using them. Lethargy and limited digest tract function are another symptom of MBD.

So…

what do I do now?

The immediate answer was intervention feeding. She needed nutrition, trace vitamins and minerals if she had any chance of a future.

And I won’t pretend this was pleasant — for either of us.

It involved gently but firmly opening Gizmo’s mouth and introducing food directly, ensuring she was able to take in nutrition while she was still not feeding voluntarily.

This is never something I take lightly, and it’s always done with the intention of stabilising the animal rather than forcing compliance for convenience.

In the first couple of sessions, she resisted as you’d expect. I would too if someone was forcing food into my mouth!

But something interesting happened over time.

Gizmo began to associate the process with food.

I wasn’t trying to hurt her — I was just, in her world, a strange bald primate repeatedly presenting her with what turned out to be acceptable prey items.

By the end of the two-week period, there were early signs of change.

She began to show interest when food was presented.

Eventually, she started to open her mouth in anticipation of a roach.

For this process, I used dubia roaches as the primary feeder — selected for their digestibility and favourable fat-to-protein ratio, particularly in compromised animals.

Supplementation was carefully balanced, using a combination of calcium and multivitamin powders to support recovery in a system where calcium metabolism had likely been disrupted over time.

And then came the turning point.

The first time she actively struck at and consumed a feeder herself felt significant.

Not because it was dramatic. But because it was voluntary.

From that point on, progress became visible rather than theoretical.

And progress became the word.

Gizmo started feeding directly from my hand inside her enclosure.

No more stressful assisted feeding.

No more careful opening of jaws.

She began engaging her tongue in that wonderfully characteristic agamid feeding response — spotting, striking, chewing, swallowing — her beautiful frill moving rhythmically with every bite. For the first time, recovery felt active, she wasn’t simply receiving nutrition anymore, she was participating in it.

Her diet remained varied and heavily supported with supplementation to give her every possible opportunity.

But this is where MBD becomes difficult.

Because recovery doesn’t always mean restoration.

Metabolic Bone Disease — particularly when advanced — can leave permanent changes to skeletal structure and function.

The underlying metabolic issues can often be managed.

Progress can happen.

Quality of life can improve.

But severe structural changes may not fully reverse and that raises a question that I think every keeper eventually faces:

When do you decide quality of life is compromised?

How do you make that decision?

Gizmo continued to eat.

She continued to move.

But she never regained the mobility you would normally expect from a healthy frilled lizard.

She tried to climb and she fell.

Repeatedly.

Sometimes she would roll and become stuck on her back.

Once, she became trapped in her own water bowl, that was removed immediately — something I’d never had to do before with any arboreal lizard. My best interpretation — and I stress interpretation — was that Gizmo retained the instinct to climb but lacked the musculoskeletal strength and stability to do so safely.

Her behaviour hadn’t changed.

Her body had.

And that’s where I realised something uncomfortable:

My job wasn’t to make Gizmo into a normal frilled lizard.

My job was to figure out what a good life looked like for Gizmo.

So — a year and a half after Gizmo arrived in my life, both she and her enclosure have changed.

Her diet remains varied and she still enjoys food, not with quite the same enthusiasm I’d expect from a fully healthy frilled lizard, but she engages.

My interpretation — and this is very much a hypothesis rather than a diagnosis — is that whatever underlying process contributed to her suspected MBD may also have affected her overall nutritional status and long-term condition in ways I can’t fully assess. I’d guess theres some damage to the GI tract, but what do I know?

But what I do know is this:

She eats.

She maintains condition.

She engages with her environment.

And that’s enough for me.

Her enclosure today reflects her rather than the species profile in a book. She now lives in a 4 × 2 × 2 enclosure, not the towering, heavily vertical setup I originally imagined for an adult frilled lizard — but one designed around what Gizmo can safely and comfortably use.

Her substrate is deep, loose, moisture-retaining and topped with leaf litter.

She still has opportunities to climb.

She still has appropriate basking temperatures.

She still receives UV exposure suitable for her species.

But every element has been adapted for function rather than aesthetics.

We also water her by hand. I no longer trust that girl with a water bowl.

She still occasionally manages to throw herself onto her back.

She still can’t reliably right herself, but there’s usually a helping hand nearby.

And despite everything — she still behaves like Gizmo.

One of her favourite activities is sitting on a shoulder and staring thoughtfully into the middle distance. Which feels oddly appropriate.

Because if Gizmo taught me anything, it’s this:

Quality of life doesn’t always mean restoring an animal to what the books say it should be.

Sometimes it means paying attention, adapting, and allowing that individual to live well on their own terms.

And, as I finish writing this article—

you’ll never guess who’s sitting on my shoulder.

Gizmo.