One winter morning back in 2011 I was feeding the cats when I saw something shiny moving across the back porch. I went to investigate, the cats cautiously following behind me, and saw a small snake slithering calmly across the concrete; shiny, black and quite handsome, he moved effortlessly into a clump of palm trees by the back door and out of sight.
“I saw a snake on the back porch today,” I told my partner at dinner that night.
“I’ve seen him — he’s been here for a while,” said my partner. “He’s a rat snake — and he’s harmless. I named him ‘Slither.’”
“He’s kind of cute” I agreed, and we said no more.
Slither is not a daily visitor at our house, but we see him often enough to know he’s thriving. He’s probably about four feet long now, and as wide around as a small banana. He still lives in the clump of palm trees by the back porch and he comes out on occasion to bask in the sun. He certainly does not bother me; I’d much rather host a snake than an iguana or a rat, and my partner, a veterinarian, has an ironclad “live and let live “policy with the local fauna.
But unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way, as I discovered just last week. We were getting ready to have the house painted and I was trimming what we now call “Slither’s tree” back from the stucco. As I was cutting, I heard a stirring in the underbrush and saw a flash of shiny black glide by.
“Morning, Slither,” I said absently.
The next day as the painters were setting up I heard a huge commotion in the back yard. When I went to investigate I found that the 2 painters, Dunlap and Crowley, were nearly incoherent with fear; for one horrible moment I thought I would have to slap 1 or both of them. Eventually they calmed down enough to explain what happened.
“There be a huge snake in there,” said Dunlap, pointing to Slither’s tree.
“It were ernormous,” agreed Crowley.
“Ernormous,” echoed Dunlap, eyes wide.
“That’s Slither,” I said. “He’s not enormous and he’s not dangerous. I’m sure he’s gone.”
“He still be in there,” said Dunlap.
“He will bite us!” said Crawley.
“He’s more afraid of you than you are of him,” I countered.
“I ain’t afraid of no snake,” said Crowley, pushing his chest out unconvincingly. Dunlap nodded squeamishly, never taking his eyes off the palm tree.
“Good man!” I said heartily. “He won’t bother you,” and I went into the house.
Clearly not assured, Crawley halfheartedly began to paint, as well as he could while staring at the ground. A couple of minutes later, when a mockingbird flew by, low, Crawley leaped off the ladder and was halfway across the yard before he r
ealized that snakes don’t fly. Meanwhile, I was on the phone with my partner.
“Tell them rat snakes don’t bite,” he told me. “They’re constrictors; they crush their prey to death.” As we hung up, I decided to keep that factoid to myself; I didn’t think the painters would find it comforting. Soon after, I looked out the back window and saw Crowley and Dunlap a safe distance from the house, engaged in an animated conversation. Then Dunlap walked to his truck; a moment later I saw him walk into the back yard with a hatchet. I immediately ran outside.
“What’s with the hatchet?” I asked.
“I going to kill that snake,” said Dunlap.
“Snake don’t deserve to live,” said Crawley.
“Leave the snake alone,” I said shortly. “He’s no threat.”
“Would you want him in your house?” said Crawley.
“Of course not,” I said. “But I also have relatives who I don’t want in the house — and I don’t try to chop off their heads.”
I left Crowley and Dunlap muttering indignantly, and not long after I saw Dunlap drive away and return soon after with two large boxes in his hands. I knew this was not a good sign; I went back into the back yard in time to see Dunlap spreading mothballs liberally across the terrain. “Snake hate mothballs,” he explained.
“So do I,” I said. “And I can’t risk the dog getting into the mothballs. Pick them up.”
Grudgingly he picked up the mothballs and then he and Crawley had another conference whereby it was agreed that Crawley would paint, quickly, while Dunlap would stomp his feet and clap loudly so that Slither would be too afraid to reappear, which he was kind enough to not do, although I can’t for a moment believe he was intimidated by either of the painters.
Crawley painted that side of the house in record time and later that day I heard the painters telling their story to the roofers.
“He were 8 feet long!” said Crowley. “And as black and thick as an eggplant.”
“He tried to bite me but I scared him off,” said Dunlap, while the roofers, impressed, nodded and murmured their admiration.
“We ain’t afraid of no snakes,” said Dunlap.
“No way,” said Crawley.