SNAKE! Of course, that one word grabs everyone's attention. On Saturday afternoon I was reclining on the sofa, at least the part my Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested dog, Roxie would allow me to enjoy. Then I heard my long-suffering wife call from outside, "John, come quickly!" So I did. She was looking over the edge of the front porch, pointing down into our flower garden. It was a SNAKE! It slithered back into the bushes.
I hate snakes.
Lisa went inside. I peeked over the railing and there it was again, enormous, farther out in the yard. SNAKE! My heart went pitty-pat. My body went to the out building for a shovel. I came back. It was still there. Defending my family and territory, I drove the shovel down and nearly cut it in half. Still, it slithered away around the courner when I pulled the shovel back. It's guts were emerging, yet it was still alive.
I pursued but could not find it. I poked around with the shovel, wishing it had a longer handle, and the SNAKE emerged, weaving back and forth. I nailed it again, shouting ancient Irish epithets and channeling St. Patrick. It would not die, striking again and again at the shovel. Creepy.
Finally, I finished it off, separating the head from the body, then went inside to Google its identity. I knew if it had been a black snake I would have left it alone, even though I think I mentioned that I hate snakes.
It is dead now, dumped on the dry bird feeder so our friend Mike, an expert, can identify what I killed. Lisa is sad. She is more of a naturalist than I. Google confirmed my suspicions that it was either a King Cobra or a Green Mamba. Mike's coming over tomorrow after church. He'll know.
Stay tuned, dear reader.