I hate snakes. I don’t even like the useful ones, like blacksnakes, who supposedly eat rodents, copperheads (folklore, I believe), and ATF employees because the main purpose for all snakes is this – scare the bejeezus out of me the instant I see one. I don’t want to see one, but I am ever vigilant that there is a snake somewhere just waiting to jump out at me and say, “Aha!” at which point, as soon as my heart starts beating again, I go get a shovel, hoe, or gatling gun to KILL IT. But by then it is usually gone, blogging to other snakes about what fun it was to make me wet my pants. I hate snakes.
So, when my long-suffering wife, Lisa, came in the house to tell me there was a snake in her little vegetable garden (one of only two manmade creations visible from outer space the other being The Great Wall of China), I asked, “Do you want me to kill it?” she replied, “No, I want you help me to free it.”
A simple, non-assuming, modest rat snake, about 3-4 feet long, had gotten itself entangled in a roll of mesh Lisa uses to cover our blueberry bushes to keep the local birds from ripping us off when the berries are ripe. The poor snakey-wakey was twapped and couldn’t get fwee! I told Lisa I’d go get a shovel and put it out of its misery. I mean, it was a freaking snake, not a bunny wabbit.
My wife, The Snake Whisperer, prevailed. While I used a long stick to pin the snakes little noggin, Lisa took a pair of clippers and snipped away at the mesh, holding the snake by its tail as she did so. Finished, she let go and I let go and the snake slithered away, no doubt giggling about more opportunities to sneak back and surprise me.
I hate snakes.