In the South, everyone has at least one snake story. I guess they probably do up north, too, but I don’t make a habit of drawing Yankees into conversation if I can help it (Jeannie, you are excluded). And it’s that time of year, snake season, where everybody and their brother is telling about having one in their yard, house, or car. Anyway, here is mine:

I had bought my new bedroom furniture and it was delivered and set up while I wasn’t home. I didn’t know that the frame legs and hardwood floors didn’t go together until a few months later. So I had to call the store up and tell them about their faulty installation and make plans for my uncle to accompany them into my home since I couldn’t be there–I had to work to pay for said furniture. The day they scheduled I also had a riding lesson, so I didn’t get home till dusk-thirty.

The first thing I noticed amiss was my grill brush lying on the far side of the porch. Normally it’s on the grill stand. My old dog, Crockett, wasn’t acting like he was the culprit, so I just continued on my way up the sidewalk.

That’s when I saw it. On the backside of the concrete step was a long, slender, black tail dangling from a crack in the cinderblock. I began to move much more carefully. My heart rate increased a hundredfold. I went around the side of the porch as quietly as possible to stage my attack. There were no garden instruments nearby, I would have to go through the house and down to the basement where they were stored. As soon as I was in the house I kicked it into high gear, praying that Crockett wouldn’t spook it. I raced downstairs, snatched up my favorite snake execution tool-the hoe-and about broke my neck getting back around to the front.

The snake was still there. I had time to plot my next move, which was risky business indeed. It looked to me like he was chasing his meal-probably a very cute mouse-and the mouse made it through the crack, hopefully avoiding the jaws of death. Otherwise, the snake was happily enjoying his furry dinner, so much so, had not taken the time to properly attain a suitable dining spot.

I shuddered and set to task.

I eased forward inch by inch, Crockett eyeing me like I had a new screw loose. I thought it best to take a solid whack, then hope it didn’t turn on me. I would have to squish it down and maneuver the hoe back to whacking position super swift-like. Swift doesn’t come naturally to me, and neither does graceful, so I was hoping that the initial whack would suffice.

I drew back, picturing myself as Babe Ruth at the bat with a hoe.

I whacked.

Nothing happened.

I paused, praying my heart wouldn’t explode. The snake never moved. I creeped forward marginally. I was within two feet now. Striking distance for Mr. Serpent.

I poked him bravely with my hoe. He didn’t even flinch.

I began looking around, sure I would find my uncle peering at me and snickering from behind the lilac bush.

All was quiet, except for Crockett’s panting. I looked at him. “Where did this come from?” I asked him. After years spent living alone, it’s not if you’ll talk to your pets, it’s how frequently. In my case, all the time. He cocked an eyebrow.

“I know it’s fake,” I told him. “Uncle Dale thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he? Let’s call him.”

So I rang him up as I stood outside sweating and having heart palpitations over a rubber snake.

“Hello, Pilgrim,” he greeted me as always.

“I suppose you think you’re comical,” I shot back, straight to the point.

“What?”

“This rubber snake you left me out here in the porch I’ve been trying to kill for ten minutes. I figured you were hid in the yard, waiting on me to come home.”

“IT AIN’T FAKE!” He hollered, and I stepped back two feet for good measure.

“Well, it ain’t doin’ nothin’ when I hit it with the hoe,” I retorted. “It ain’t even bleedin’.”

“I guess I was able to kill it, then,” he remarked thoughtfully, with a small hint of pride.

“You better tell me how I’ve come to have a dead snake hangin’ out of my porch.”

“Well, I went out there to save the furniture crew from Crockett, and I saw it laying in the flowerbed. I knew you’d freak out if you saw it again, so I was looking for something to kill it with and all there was was your grill brush.”

My stomach did a flip.

And I noticed something I hadn’t seen before in my panicked state of inspection-he had some lacerations that had oozed blood slightly. I gulped.

I had a dead snake. In my porch.

And the murder weapon was an implement I would have used in the future to clean a cooking surface.
I eyed it distastefully.

“So he made for that crack, and I hit him a lick, and it slowed him down, and I guess he kinda got mad and swelled up…I couldn’t get him out. So I left him for you.”

I looked at Crockett for help. He looked behind him.

“So what am I gonna dooooo????”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can pull him out now, maybe the swelling went down some.”

“But that means I’ll have to touch him!” I wailed.

“Well, aintcha got no gloves?”

Hardly the point.

I went to searching for some plastic gloves. I didn’t have any, so I settled for plastic bags. I pulled on my thickest leather haying gloves and then the plastic bags over them. And then I took a deep breath.

I would like to say then I pulled, but I didn’t. I felt faint, so I sat down a ways away, eyeing the long black snake. I was pretty sure I was going to be sick. It was getting dark, I was going to have to get this over with soon. A pep talk was in order. First I talked to my dog, then I talked to myself because he lost interest. “I can do this. I can do this,” I repeated.

I grabbed hold. Now that is an icky feeling, let me tell you. Even through layers of plastic and leather. So I grabbed hold, and I pulled.

Once again, nothing happened. He was stuck fast. I pulled harder. He gave a little, like a waterhose does, but sprang back to his original shape when released. A fine mess I had myself in.

I don’t live in the country, exactly, but there are plenty of possums and coons and the like around, so I figured I could just leave it and something would come along in the night and find a handy meal. So that’s what I did.

At this time, Shug and I were not married, we were dating, and when he called I enlightened him of the whole spectacle. He thought I was making it up.

“I know it’s unbelievable, but I swear, there is a snake stuck in my porch.”

So I go to sleep, praying the wife of Mr. Snake wouldn’t be lying in wait for me the next day, and that a scavenger was enjoying the bounty.

The next morning, imagine my surprise when I found the same scene. I didn’t have time for this, I had to be at work.

So all day long, as the temperature rose, so did my worries. I extracted advice from coworkers. I had worked myself into a fine frenzy. “He’s gonna be more swelled, since it’s so hot, and he’s gonna stink, and what am I gonna dooooo???”

The suggestions weren’t so helpful. I bought a bag of powdered lime, thinking it would dry him up with less smell. Maybe I would get lucky and a daytime creature had snacked on him.

Of course, as y’all know, I’m not really of the lucky sort, and I came home to much the same setting as before. What I could see of the snake appeared even more dejected and limp, if that were possible. I sighed, and donned gloves and new plastic bags. And pulled. A little of the skin moved, and I had this awful premonition of the entire snake popping in two with a horrible snapping noise and splattering me in the face with snake goop. That just wouldn’t do.

Johnny was coming over, so I’d receive suggestions from him.

Turns out, he was as disgusted as me, but also considered it entertaining since he didn’t live here.

“Who does this happen to?” He asked, trying to disguise his mirth.

In the end, on the third day, I ended up taking tree pruners and lopping off as much as I could manage, which wasn’t much, because I couldn’t get the handles between the porch and step. I was left with about six inches of snake to rot away slowly in the coming summer weeks.

We still have not patched the crack. I don’t like thinking about it.

So that’s my snake story. Top that.