I have my own fears in life, like getting eaten alive by a shark (and I live 7 hours from an ocean) or tripping in front of my boss or missing a button on a shirt and going out in public, but my biggest fear is snakes. And a few weeks ago I faced this fear head on.
Of course, by head on, I mean by screaming and running.
It happened out in my front yard on what appeared to be a normal day. I’ve lived here for more than a year, and in this town for over three. I have never once seen a snake here before. The lesson here is that safety is never, ever guaranteed.
So I’m in my front yard moving the sprinkler (and thank the Lord that I opted to put some shoes on, since usually I go out barefoot) and stepped on what appeared to be a big, black stick. But sticks don’t move. Right? And this one did. And reared up in that scary, snake-y way. As usual, my wonderful emergency instincts kicked in. Translation: I screamed like an eight-year old girl and tried not to pee my pants. The snake (or devil’s minion, as I saw it) was between me and my door, so I was effectively trapped. I called my friend Maryanne to have her rescue me—don’t judge me, we all have our fears—but she was trapped at work. So I called my guy friend Mike instead. I got his wife and she somehow correctly translated my incoherent garbling and sent Mike over. He killed the snake and I felt much better. Snakes should die, yes?
So after happily celebrating that the snake was dead, I went about my regular life. Except that I was too afraid to water my lawn. Finally after a week I decided to get over myself. I hadn’t seen any other snakes and thought that maybe that one had just been an aberration. Plus, my dog’s “business” needed to be taken care of. So I geared myself up, gathered up the dog . . . stuff . . . and went to the dumpster. My lawn is off my driveway, which is higher up than the lawn. To get to the dumpster, I have to cross the driveway which means climbing these steps. As I’m heading up the steps (which are wooden), I see another snake. This one was a bit of a pansy, though. When I screamed, he (or I suppose she, I didn’t check) went under the stairs. Mike was out of town, so I called another friend, Michael. He informed me that garter snakes are good and he wouldn’t kill this one. His advice was for me to get over it. Clearly this isn’t a person who knows me well. Or, and this is the version I tell our mutual friends, he was really afraid of snakes too and just didn’t want to look un-manly. So I called Paul. He showed up within minutes, without judging me—thus ensuring my lifelong devotion—prepared to kick a little reptile ass.
Unfortunately, the snake was no longer alone under the stairs. He was joined by about a gazillion yellow jacket buddies. Which Paul is allergic to, thus taking him out of the running to kill the snake. After comforting me for not being able to kill the evil being, Paul left. I returned shakily inside. Later that night, my cat was scratching on the front door wanting in. I opened the door and my first thought was, “How did her tail get so long, and why on earth is she holding it in her mouth?” Yup, she had caught the snake. And killed it. So score for her, but ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. And this is why I’m not outdoorsy. Living in the city is dangerous enough.
