Snakes in the Grasses

Good news for those living in the fire-ravaged, flood-damaged canyons. It’s creature season again.

Due to the unusually warm weather, rattlesnakes are slithering from their hiding places, black widows are crawling into attack positions and mountain lions are out prowling for food.

A case in point is Lisa Zuckerman. She went whistling down her walkway near Old Topanga Canyon Boulevard one day and found a rattler stretched across the path, sunning itself.

“I couldn’t believe it,” she said later. “It was this big around and 2 1/2 Barbies long.”

She measures things according to the length of her children’s toys, in this case her daughter’s dolls. A Barbie is 12 inches.

A comedy writer I knew once calculated that the average dog is three feet long when lying flat on the floor. His office, he informed me, was 2 1/2 flat dogs by three flat dogs. His wife was exactly 1 2/3 flat dogs tall.

An environmentalist neighbor made me a snake-catcher. It’s a long, slim plastic pole with a loop on the end.

“The idea,” he explained, “is to drop the loop over the snake and tighten it. Then put the snake in a burlap bag and relocate it.”

“I’ll relocate what’s left,” I said, “and bury the head in a jar.”

“Snakes are a part of nature’s plan,” he said. “You don’t have to cut the head off of everything you encounter.”

“Yes he does,” my wife, Cinelli, said. “It’s his job.”

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A ranger at Topanga State Park told me if I saw a snake I should try and soothe it.

“How do you soothe a snake?” I asked.

“By never raising your voice,” she said. “Keep your mantra calm.”

She personally assures all the snakes she catches that she is only going to transport them to a place where they’ll be safe from the intrusions of man.

“Get me the address,” Cinelli said. “Does it have a spa?”

I’ve killed a half-dozen snakes in our yard. I tried talking to them, but they wouldn’t listen. “This is your last chance,” I said to one of them. It coiled and hissed. Whack! Goodby, Mr. Snake.

“Without snakes,” the neighbor said angrily, “the world would be overrun with rats! Is that what you want?”

Cinelli is on his side. Live and let live. She picks up spiders in the house and sets them free. Birds dumb enough to fly into a window are nursed back to health in our bathroom. I found a frog in the sink once.

“The cat got it,” she said, petting the slimy thing.

“You cure the toad,” I said, “I’ll kill the cat. It’s nature’s way.”

The owner of a chicken ranch told me that birds doomed to become edibles almost die smiling it’s so easy. He was trying to convince me that poultry-processing was humane.

“Why, they practically push each other aside to get in line to be packaged,” he said.

“Touch that cat,” Cinelli warned, “and you’ll be standing in line yourself, chicken-boy.”

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Mountain lions are something else. You can’t just soothe their mantras, drop a loop over their heads and stuff them into a burlap bag.

So far, they’ve only been spotted in the Porter Ranch area, although paw prints are seen occasionally in the Santa Monicas.

“Mountain lions think twice about attacking something bigger than them,” an expert said. “If you see one, hold perfectly still and stand as tall as possible. Don’t stoop, lie down or be short.”

I am under two flat dogs in height and that worries me. Mountain lions are not going to be impressed with that. Even bobcats treat me with disdain. Step aside and adios, Shorty.

Wildlife experts are telling the people of Porter Ranch to stay calm. By law, they can’t do anything about a mountain lion until it becomes a danger to humans. It’s easier to shoot a tagger in this town than a cougar.

A few days ago, I met a rattler on a trail in Topanga State Park. It was a Barbie-and-a-half long. We stared at each other for what seemed hours. Then the snake, soothed by my mantra, slithered away.

“‘I met Mr. Snake on the trail today,” I said to Cinelli.

“Where’d you put its head?”

“It’s still on the snake.”

“See how gentle you’ve become since you gave up martinis?”

The realization was unsettling. I went outside and stomped a spider.

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