Everyone is afraid of something. While I have my fears, upon reflection, I’m not afraid of “normal” things. For example, heights? Nope. Not afraid of them.
Flying? Not that either. I actually love to fly.
Snakes? No…as long as they’re in their natural habitat. More on that later…
When I was 10 years old, one of my aunts was dating a guy who raised snakes. I remember him putting one around my neck, and feeling the tickle as it slithered down onto my arm. As a kid interested in science, I loved touching them—stroking their rough, scaly snake skin, petting their tiny heads, and even feeling their tongues.
Yeah, I know. I’m weird.
The only thing I didn’t like about snakes was watching them being fed. The boyfriend would get frozen mice out of the freezer and stick one in each snake’s aquarium. I hated it more when he fed them live ones.
Shudder…
(And don’t talk to me about the “Circle of Life.” Just because it exists doesn’t mean that I have to watch it.)
When we moved into our home in the sticks, as I call it—because we’re surrounded by farms and woods – we began seeing snakes, albeit on a once-in-a-while basis. I remember when we saw our first black snake. It was tiny. It was thin. And it was terrified of us, as it blatantly illustrated by quickly slithering off our porch and into the garden.
Over the years, we’ve seen snakes here and there. Green ones, brownish ones, and black ones.
No fear here.
Just this past spring, when my husband and I were working on our roses, he lifted a bunch of leaves and said, “Hey! Come here! I found a dead snake.”
Knowing something about snakes, I said, “Yeah, I don’t think it’s dead.”
“But just look at it. It’s not moved. It’s all curled up. I’m sure it’s dead.”
“Trust me. It’s playing dead.”
My husband, who grew up in the county as opposed to the city as I did, looked at me as if to ask, “How in the world would you know?” Which was a fair enough, as most of the wildlife I learned about in the city consisted of pigeons, water bugs, and, let’s face it, rats—that were always outside.
What he didn’t know, was that I had once been a snake whisperer.
(Okay. I really wasn’t a snake whisperer. But for the purposes of this column, let’s pretend I was. At least I knew more about snakes than he did.)
“Use a stick. Put it under the snake. And pick it up,” I instructed him.
He did. The snake stayed curled in a ball. My husband rejoiced. “See! Dead as a doornail!”
For about the next two seconds…
Then Mr. Crafty Snake began to move—and move fast.
“Oh my God! He’s alive!” yelled my husband. “Where’d he go?”
Because that quickly, Mr. Crafty Snake was gone.
In these types of situations, I’m not afraid of snakes. They’re not the poisonous ones. They’re not going to hurt me. And they’re waaaaayyyy more afraid of me.
Until the day I found one…In. My. Car…
Regular readers of this column may wonder what is up with my car, as I wrote about having mice and a nest in the door during the summer. Well, the part of the door of my driver’s side that connects to the body of the car must be the perfect place for critters to take up residence.
Because that’s exactly where we found a nice, big snake. And that one wasn’t afraid to show that he was alive.
I remember the day like it was yesterday. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my husband was going to use my car. After leaving, only about thirty seconds passed when my husband was back in the house.
“You are not going to believe what’s living in your car,” he said.
Since this was pre-mousegate, I really couldn’t imagine.
Remember—I’m a city girl. I expected to find someone lying in the back seat.
But no. Brad opened up the car door, and pointed into the area where the hinge is. At first, I couldn’t see anything.
Then I saw it.
His little beady eyes were peering out at me. This snake was also curled up.
“It looks pretty comfy in there,” Brad said.
“You won’t think so if it pops out of the dash while you’re driving,” I replied.
As we always do when we need to move a critter, we began to look for a stick. It had to be a big one, as this snake was the biggest I’d ever seen—at least out in the wild.
Brad gently moved the stick under the top part of the snake’s body. (No, we didn’t kill it. He probably just went out for a pack of cigarettes, and his family was waiting for his return.)
That’s all he had to do. Mr. Beady Eyes, unfurled, fell onto the ground, startled both of us just because of how dang large it was (a few feet long), and then proceeded to high tail it (or is it snake tail it?) over the asphalt and into the grass.
Brad poked around, and after being assured that none of his friends remained, he got into my car and drove off.
To date, we haven’t seen any other snakes. But we know they’re out there. Watching us.
Waiting.
Where is Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?
Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not wondering what to sssssssssssssssssay in this tagline on
a column about ssssssssssssssnakes, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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