Wanted: Coldblooded Escapee
My son is back in college, and once again the nest is empty.
Empty, except for the snakes.
There was no room for the snakes in the borrowed van into which my son packed the futon as big as the Ritz and his other worldly goods before heading north to Santa Cruz.
Thus, as my son relives the ‘60s and, please God, prepares to graduate, I function as the family snake sitter, keeping their water topped off and dropping the occasional meal into their terreria. I also make sure a heated artificial rock called a sizzle stone--the ultimate in snake furniture--is plugged in.
“You are doing what ?” a friend squealed when I told her I was looking after a couple of snakes. “Can’t you get someone to come in?”
No one that I can think of. As far as I know, there isn’t even a support group for Co-Dependents of People with Pets You Shouldn’t Know From (or CPPYSKF).
Most days, the snakes are no problem. Reptiles are not the most demanding of creatures. As a friend observed of one of the snakes: “You know what you’ve got there is a garden hose with an attitude.”
Granted, feeding them isn’t wonderful. The small one, a blue ribbon snake, eats goldfish that circle the water bowl for all too short a time and then disappear without a sound. Sad in a quiet sort of way, but not traumatic--except for the fish.
The larger snake, a young rock python a bit shy of four feet, eats mice. I’m not crazy about dumping the mice into the terrarium, particularly since they come from the pet shop in a cardboard carrier with “Somebody loves me” written on it. And the mice have a disconcerting tendency, when confronted with the reptilian equivalent of Freddy Krueger, to give a plaintive squeak. Even worse is the occasional mouse that seems oblivious to the distinction between predator and prey and seems to regard the snake as a long pal. Either way, I leave the room as soon as their little mouse feet hit the bottom of the cage.
But recently, things got out of hand, snake-wise.
I had just poured my first cup of coffee when I decided to see if the snakes needed water. The little one was fine. The big one was not fine. It was the worst thing, short of deceased, that a pet snake can be.
It was missing.
One corner of the terrarium’s snap-on mesh cover looked as if it had been jimmied. From the inside.
Why, I asked myself, did I let that child leave town without his snakes?
The most compelling reason to search for a lost snake is the unpleasantness of knowing it is lurking somewhere in your house. Nobody wants to tear back the covers at bedtime and find something coiled on the sheets. Nobody wants to be in mid-conversation with a guest and have to explain that what just slithered up onto the coffee table is a rock python and, no, it isn’t poisonous.
I called the pet shop. “If I leave a bowl of water out will the snake eventually come to it?” I asked.
“No way,” the proprietor said, laughing.
“Any clues as to where it might go?” I pleaded.
She chortled again. “It could be anywhere !”
Finally, she advised that it would probably find someplace dark and warm and go to sleep. Wonderful.
As mothers go, I was better prepared for this trying moment than most. I grew up with snakes. My amateur zoologist father believed that animals teach children vital lessons about such weighty matters as evolution and the food chain. (Snakes are especially good at the latter.)
In my childhood home, animals were to be cared for and respected, but they were not necessarily objects of affection. If you wanted an emotion-filled encounter with another creature, you didn’t need a puppy. You could always fight with your sister.
As a result, our pets were always interesting, occasionally majestic, but rarely cuddly. We had a succession of raptors and at least one red fox. At one point, my younger brothers had boas as big as they were.
Our mother was probably the only woman in suburban Philadelphia who extolled the virtues of constrictors as house pets. “They don’t bark, they don’t have to be walked, and they only eat once a month,” Mom explained when asked why we didn’t have cocker spaniels or parakeets like normal people.
Apparently, the boas of yesteryear never got loose.
For an hour, I peered into closets, gingerly moving boxes. I got a stepladder and checked out the tops of bookcases. I moved chairs and tables. I looked in the oven.
Finally, I decided to think like a snake. If I were looking for someplace dark and warm to take a nap, where would I go? The sofa. I removed the back cushions, and there was a familiar, triangular head. Oh, happy day.
My father would have been proud of what came next. I caught the snake behind the head on the first try and carried the creature, my other hand supporting its muscular body, back to its tank. The snake registered its displeasure with a soughing sound that scared the freckles off me. I weighted down the corners of the terrarium cover with cans of vegetarian refried beans and resisted the urge to sing five or six verses of “I Am Woman.”
The crisis was over, but the problem remains.
If my son doesn’t come home soon and get his snakes, I’m putting him up for adoption.
The kid is adorable, and the deal includes a sizzle stone.
