Cats and Snakes

by Karen J. Cravens

Ooh yeah. Cats and snakes. When I lived with my parents, we had a Siamese named Pixel ("Pixie") who loved to hang out on the screened back porch. Dad had put a lot of effort into bug- and snake-proofing the porch, since it was built on a ground-level patio and we had plenty of garter snakes in the surrounding shrubbery. Despite his best efforts, Pixie brought us a little brown garter snake one day... I thought she was bringing in a stick (not unusual behavior for her; she loved "fetch"), but on closer examination realized what it was.

The snake was holding itself very stiff and straight; I put it on the kitchen table to examine it. No visible injuries, so I found a jar and put it in about the time it decided the danger had passed and it was safe to start wriggling. Pixie was vastly impressed with herself, and the snake got taken to work and let go behind the warehouse to take care of the cricket infestation.

Meanwhile, however, my dad was worried. "They always come in pairs," he said... seemed to me they always came in dozens, but I didn't bring that up. At any rate, he went over the screening yet again until he found and sealed every possible hole.

And then I came back from my senior class trip, whereon we had all bought Something Silly. My silliness was a four-foot rubber blacksnake, with which we'd had a great deal of fun on the bus on the way back, and which we'd uncharitably dubbed "Mr. Baker" after the school principal. Pixie thought this snake was better than the garter, since it was very springy rubber and its tail danced wonderfully with the slightest touch. But Dad hadn't seen it yet. So Mr. Baker was strategically arranged in a sunny spot on the patio. And there he spent all day Saturday. We (my mother and sister were in on this, of course) were convinced Dad was deliberately ignoring the snake: he'd go to the sliding glass door and look over the various bushes in the yard ("I think that rosebush isn't going to make it," etc.), looking right over the patio (which, as I said, was at ground level, two steps below the house floor level).

Sunday morning arrived, and I was awakened by my sister telling me I'd better come rescue the snake. Dad had finally noticed it, and was considering going next door and waking up the neighbor, who normally worked a night shift and didn't get up before noon.

Dad:

"Don does a lot of hunting. He'll know if it's poisonous."

Mom:

"No, don't wake him up. The snake isn't going anywhere, just leave it until this afternoon."

Me (stumbling out half-awake):

"It might be poisonous if you ate it. But it's not venomous."

Dad:

"Oh, Karen... you know a lot about snakes. What kind is it?"

Me:

"A rubber snake."

Dad (obviously not registering exactly what I'm saying):

"Is that kind poisonous?"

Me (smirking uncontrollably):

"No."

Dad:

"I'm sure I sealed up that porch. How could it have gotten in?"

Me:

"Through the door."

My mother and sister are, by this time, in hysterics, and they find this even more hilarious.

Dad:

"It's not funny. How do you think could it have gotten in?"

Me:

"I'm serious. It got in through the door." (opens sliding glass door)

Dad:

"Hey! Don't let it in the house!" (The snake is ten feet away from the door and, obviously, not moving. Pixie runs out to get her "toy.") "Don't let the cat near it! It might be poisonous!"

Me:

"It's a RUBBER SNAKE!" (I was not sufficiently awake to think of saying "MADE OUT OF RUBBER.")

Dad:

"Are you sure? What if it's a cottonmouth?" (This part of Kansas has only two types of venomous snakes, both of which are pit vipers with very distinctively heart-shaped heads. Also, neither are made of rubber.)

At this point, despite Dad yelling warnings, I picked up the snake, with Pixie batting its sproingy tail, and he realized that "rubber snake" was not just a colorful name for a species of local wildlife...

The ride to church that morning was ominously quiet. Except for the occasional "ssssssss" and stifled giggles coming from the back seat. I don't think Dad spoke to any of us until dinner.

Alas, Mr. Baker (the snake, not the principal) went on a fishing trip a few years ago, with a co-worker whose fishing buddy was notoriously terrified of snakes, and never returned (Rubber sinks, I understand. I also think there was a shotgun involved). But I definitely got my $5 worth.

Editor's note:

• If you want to comment on this article, why not write direct to Karen J. Cravens?
• She will be pleased to hear from you!

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