This morning I took my dog for a walk. Lovely day. Blue skies, smiling sun, empty country roads. The grass is turning green, and flowers are popping up all over the place. Then we got back home. And saw this:
Serene little house, isn’t it? Only, wait . . . Could we zoom in on that one spot please?
Hm. Maybe you still can’t see it that well.
How’s that?
Oh. There we go.
It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Sharks may be terrifying, sure. Spiders are actually a tiny bit cute. But snakes are positively loathsome. Never mind that this particular gathering was made up only of darling, helpful, non-poisonous garter snakes. Darling my foot.
So, after running for my camera, I did what any rational, law-abiding adult would do. I declared war. Running screaming to my car, I peeled out of the driveway and bore down on the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness. I’m pretty sure for a moment my car entertained dreams of being in the Indianapolis 500. Then there was a bump. Four down. Nine hundred ninety six miserable creatures to go.
The survivors slithered for the grass, and I ran for Weapon of Mass Destruction Number Two. The shovel. It’s kind of an archaic thing with a wooden handle that feels like it’s petrified and a head that’s seen sharper, shinier days. But I wasn’t about to be picky. Shovel in hand, I sprinted Indian-style (I was in flip-flops, which are pretty close to moccasins) onto the road. There, I met an Impasse.
Well, first, I stopped to look nonchalant and wave at the farmer driving by. Then I met an Impasse.
I was on the road. The snakes (those still alive) were worming their cowardly way through the grass. To make use of WoMDNT, I and my Indian-style flip-flops were going to have to brave The Lawn. I considered for a moment. The conclusion I came to gives me full understanding of why the Indians used to do snake dances and rain dances and that sort of thing. I called up all my courage and jumped (quite literally) into action. There I was, bouncing up and down in my flip-flops, shovel poised at the ready, eyes darting about. If a forked tongue so much as flicked in my direction, I was going to bring that shovel down hard. Or run screaming in the other direction. One unlucky piece of misery wriggled into eyesight. The shovel fell. Nine hundred and ninety five to go.
War or no, it was definitely half time. I scampered inside and spent the next five minutes pacing up and down, staring suspiciously under every dresser, double checking every electric cord to make sure it hadn’t turned into something worse, and muttering, “Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew,” every second or so.
So, where am I going now? Well, I just peeked out the window, and the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness is back at its station on the sun-warmed gravel road. I’m going to get in my car. But before I do, I would like to propose a toast. To all the heroic tricycles and their riders. May the snakes never forget you.
