The Only Good Snake . . .

In the gutter at the end of my driveway lies a dead snake. I know it's dead. I just went out to check, to be sure it was not going to revive and head back into my garage, which is where I first encountered it when I stepped out the back door. I thought I was going out to check the mail. Change of plans.

I don't know if snakes have ears--I've heard that debated--but this one either heard me or in some other way sensed my presence. It slithered under my car, out of sight, out of reach of the broom I had picked up to sweep it into the street.

After many stoops and squats and bends without finding it, I wondered if it had jumped up into underworkings of my car, perish the thought, but finally found where it had curled up, right about in the middle underneath. I reached in and took a big sweep at it, managing to move it out from under the car. This was a small snake, but like the last one I had to deal with, it raised up to strike at me. I don't like that.

I stepped around behind it and swept again. Again it moved toward me, but two more sweeps put it into the gutter, where I beat it to death. (How does that sound?) At least I hoped that's what I did.

And why did I kill it? Duh. Because it's a snake. Because it was headed for my back door. Because I do not want snakes in my house.

This is a true story, as they say.

All in a Saturday's chores? Maybe. But I hate this true story, hate beating snakes to death, hate that I have to do this stuff. I suppose I should be glad I am able to do it. And, yes, this is about Wayne, bug-, spider-, snake- and other nasty creatures-dispatcher.

And other benefits. Those were the days.