A Snake in the Bucket

     Furious barking from the porch went on so long, youngest son stepped out to investigate. "Oh!" I heard him say. He came back in to report, "There's a snake on the porch. It's in a bucket." Three buckets catch rain water that blows in through the screen during our Florida frog-drownders. The third one, tucked farthest in the corner, contained a youngish black snake, maybe eighteen inches long, thrashing its tail like a turbo metronome and vibrating its tongue at full extension and top speed. Tiger Lily the Amazing Shelter Dog feinted a time or two, barked some more, and looked up at me like "What do we do with this thing?"
     The humans conferred. I grabbed a broom. No, too soft to disable the critter. Hoe? Shovel? Bloody mess on the nice blue tile? No. Something to cover the bucket? Aha. I dashed to the garage and snatched the cardboard tray from a flat of Coke from the recycle bin. Garden gloves caught my eye, and I pulled them on. No time to change out of flipflops to real shoes. Back on the porch, I advanced with the cardboard while the menfolk heroically persuaded Tiger Lily to retreat to the kitchen. The snake struck at the cardboard and flipped itself out of the bucket. Crap. 
     All manliness, the Hubs went for the long-handled grabber-thingie that usually retrieves small items that fall behind the furniture. It has two little suction cups on the end. I swear I did not roll my eyes as he crept toward the snake, made a grab and smacked his arm so hard on the corner of the cement counter that houses our grills, it instantly raised a bluish lump from a no-doubt busted blood vessel. 

Diana the hunter

My brain finally clicked on the specimen net I keep in the foyer closet for just such occasions. Really, every Floridian should have one. I slipped the business end between the bucket and the undulating body perched on the aluminum "curb" that anchors the screen. One scaly loop extended over the ledge, so I worked the net under it and nudged. The snake jumped into the net. With frogs and lizards, I squeeze the top of the net to keep the little blighters in. For a snake... even with gloves, I decided instead to swing the net back and forth to keep it from climbing out. I kept it swinging until I reached the back fence and found the silver lining to its dilapidation. Dumped from the net, the snake scooted under the fence into the domain of the obnoxious little yappy dogs which have been annoying passers-by for years.      

It's hard work keeping my people safe. 

Allowed out again, Tiger Lily jumped and snuffled at the screen door. "I'll get that snake. I will." What the heck, let her try. She rocketed out the door, but didn't make it past the rubber-tire chew toy in the grass. She picked it up and turned toward the door. "Let's play." The Hubs rewarded her vigilance with a nice long session of fetch. I eschewed my fainting couch to fix dinner. (Leftover colcannon with bits of corned beef and a fried egg.) Then, fortified with the last of the shortbread, I composed this account for posterity. 

Life, Death, Suburbs

      Out for a walk with toddler grandson, I hear tapping in a tree. I walk around it until I spot a woodpecker high on a branch. I pick Edward up and point out the bird. We both stare until it finishes its lunch and flies away. The scene comes to mind as I’m watching “Nature” and hear the Himalayas described as “a place to see the power of nature and the fragility of life.” So is our suburban neighborhood.

     In the Himalayas, a snow leopard stalks and chases a markhor goat. Right under my front window, a cat battles a black snake. They freeze and stare at each other. When the snake finally makes a move, the cat pounces. The snake slithers up the wall, drops, tries to hide under the wood siding, is batted out by the cat. They spar for a good half hour until both give up and wander away. In that same front yard, a crane has stalked a lizard in the mondo grass, and flocks of ibis stroll through occasionally, nibbling at the lawn. Down by the library, an alligator lives in a drainage ditch.

     As Edward and I kick a ball back and forth, sparrows begin to peep in the oaks and dash from branch to branch. A mockingbird calls and glides to another tree. I wonder what the fuss is about. Then comes the indescribable whistling “scree” of a hawk, and there it is, wheeling in its self-assured way high above the houses. One of them glided into our back yard when it saw a snake entangled in netting that I wrapped around a fig tree to keep squirrels away. I saw it from the kitchen window, hopping forward to snap at the snake, but pulling back as the netting tangled its talons. By the time it gave up, it had made a long gash in the side of the snake. Some little birds, diving and chirping, drove it away. The snake had pulled the netting so tight, I couldn’t work a blade in to cut it loose. I saw the eyes lose their light.

     The nature program shows people erecting an enormous flag-bedecked pole that is supposed to convey their prayers to the mountain top where their gods reside. Mine goes with me all the time. He shows His character in great oaks that grow from acorns, in the smooth bark of crape myrtles, in fluorescent fuchsia ti leaves and the exotic yellow-flowered shrub that my South American neighbor says can help regulate diabetes. This created world has neighbors who smile and garbage truck drivers who honk the horn and collectors who wave to my grandson and make him feel like the center of the universe. And I get to stand there with him.