Not long after I laughed at my overanxious mother for inquiring about the possibility of encountering a poisonous snake while petsitting the goats, I found myself face-to-face with an angry, hissing, six-foot snake poised to strike. Sorry for laughing at you, Mom!
I was working from home on a pleasant afternoon last month. The dogs were out in the courtyard while I tapped away on the computer in my office. Suddenly, Dash started barking crazily and I heard a loud noise that sounded just like a weed-wacker right outside the courtyard doors. Wondering why the gardener had come two days early, I stepped outside to inquire.
I strode down the cobblestone walkway to the courtyard doors, but stopped mid-stride as I took in a horrific sight: wrapped around, of all things, a creepy garden gargoyle was a gigantic snake. I know it is a hackneyed expression, but my heart really did skip a beat...and promptly sank to my toes.
It gets worse. This was no garter snake. Long, thick, with dry patterned scales and a triangular head, it looked exactly like a rattlesnake.
It gets worse. Dash was protecting his territory with the ferocity of a drug lord. Barking frantically and bobbing and weaving, Dash had the snake cornered. The snake, for its part, was not taking things lying down. The top half of its body was coiled and its head was ready to strike. The awful weed-wacker sound was actually the snake's frenzied hiss. I though a hiss was supposed to be a soft or gentle sound, but in this case, the hiss was more like a buzz.
It gets worse. Dash did not respond to my command to GET INSIDE THE HOUSE. (My good, sweet, obedient Fenway, on the other hand, barreled inside the house as fast as his stumpy little legs would carry him. He does not like conflict and had strategically positioned himself behind a bush where he could watch Dash fight to the death, but from a safe distance.) In order for me to grab Dash, I would have to come within a foot of a snake's open mouth, and I would have to bend down...to eye level.
I paused for only a moment, considering. Fenway is my baby and he now is safe inside. Dash is not listening, so if he gets bitten it's his own stupid fault right? Egh. I knew I wouldn't hang him out to dry. Darn you, Dash!
I have big cheeks and a moon face, a perfect target for a snake's fangs. "And so this is how it all goes down," I thought to myself, wryly. The exact words had come to mind right after I'd taken my bone-breaking fall off Moto and found myself on the ground in a heap like a rag doll, unsure at that moment if my life had changed forever or for just a couple months. Quick as a flash, I stooped down, grabbed Dash, and ran toward the house.
With the dogs safely inside, I grabbed my iphone and ran back outside. I wanted to get a picture of the snake so I could properly identify it. And, truth be told, I knew that if I didn't get a picture, the Wrangler would assume I had seen a little garter snake and was making much ado about nothing.
With Dash out of his face, the snake was gracefully unwrapping itself from the creepiest gargoyle ever (note to self: replace gargoyle with a friendly gnome) and started slithering across the cobblestone walkway. As if on cue, it paused in front of the double doors to the courtyard. Its body stretched the entire length of the two doors--six feet. Click! I snapped a picture. The snake looked at me, nodded, and then slithered over toward the goat yard. My hands began to shake.
I raced over to the goats and shooed them into their kennel, conveniently ignoring the fact that a snake could squeeze into the kennel if it wanted to. I ran back to the last place I'd seen my six-foot intruder. It had disappeared.
I headed back into the house, took a deep breath, and started crying. I tried calling the Wrangler, but he was on the golf course and didn't pick up. I called my in-laws, who instructed me to call animal control and offered to take a look at the photos of the snake to help identity it. I also called my dad, who instructed me to get a shovel from the garage, poke around in the bushes to find the snake, and then cut its head off. Wow.
When the Wrangler arrived home, he concurred with my dad that using a shovel to...uh...remove the snake's head is the proper way to kill a snake. Perhaps. But I feel only 5% confident that such technique would work for me and not backfire most dreadfully. I envisioned a furious snake either (a) wrapping itself around my shovel and working its way up to my hands and arms, at which point it would form handcuffs and take me down, (b) somehow becoming airborne during the struggle, landing on me, and getting tangled in my hair, (c) regenerating and growing a new head or heads, (d) whispering a final curse as its eyes turn red and its body disintegrates...you get the picture.
After examining the photos, the Wrangler and both dads agreed that the unwelcome visitor actually was a "harmless" gopher snake or bull snake, not a rattler. I was spared some embarrassment, though. First, a gopher/bull snake's defense mechanism is to mimic a rattlesnake and put up an angry fight when confronted. Thus, I wasn't stupid for thinking it was a rattlesnake. Second, the gopher/bull snake is the largest snake in the United States, averaging six feet. Our native California friends later commented that they haven't seen snakes as large as this one.
At the time, I thought my dog was seconds away from being bitten by a rattlesnake. I can't remember ever feeling more frightened. But here's the amazing result. This weekend we were walking through the woods (not here) and a thin, bright green garter snake wiggled its way right across the tip of my boot. Just a month ago, this might have made me hysterical. After coming eye-to-eye with a hopping map six-foot "rattlesnake" wrapped around a gargoyle, a garter snake is nothing but a charming little friend who helpfully eats slugs, bugs, and mice. "Hi buddy," I said, as I calmly walked on by.
Everything is relative.
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