This is about the size of the snake that nearly killed me. OK, that's a lie; but, for a split second, I thought I might die. Pardon the rhyme.
-- Confucius (not really)
I was less than thrilled a month ago when, whilst lounging at Lord V's, one of his cats brought in a live, wiggling snake in her mouth. My skin felt crawly for hours afterward.
It was one of those experiences that I hoped would have remained, well, just the one experience; but fate dictated differently.
So on Sunday, I arrive at Lord V's before he does, let myself in, pour a Diet Coke and sprawl out on the couch, my usual thing. But I spy Mr. Little New Kitty (V hasn't picked a name for him yet) playing with a shoelace or something -- I couldn't tell.
So I leaned in to investigate, saying, "Oh, goodness, what you got in your little mouth, sweet Mr. Little N- ... FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!" It was a freakin' garter snake -- only about 6 inches, no more than 7. But, for a split second, I knew I was going to die.
By the way, I'm not sure what "FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH" means, but that's what I said -- then jumped back, and spun around in a circle while shaking my hands -- kinda like a meth addict doing jazz hands, but with even less rhythm. More "FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH" followed, then another spin.
I screamed so hard my throat hurt for 30 minutes after, during which time I called Lord V to say the following: "Where are you? ... Well, Mr. Little New Kitty brought a snake in, and ... FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! It's still alive! FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
Where in the world are these things coming from, I wondered -- the basement? What if there's a huge, writhing den of 'em down there, like in "Raiders of the Lost Ark"? Obviously, the best decision is to burn the house down right now.
A few calmer seconds later, my parental instincts kicked in, and I knew I had to get the snake out of the cat's mouth. Using a spray bottle with water and a couple of tea towels, I banished Mr. Little from the room, then proceeded to stare in horror at the snake -- which wasn't moving.
Lord, I thought, it's playin' possum. It's gonna re-animate, pry open its jaws and swallow me whole, like the star of "Anaconda 5: Stayin' Alive" -- which, if you're keeping up with the franchise, would be the fourth sequel and, perhaps, filmed at a discotheque. Or I'll end up in one of those pictures where all the men in some South American village hold up a 50-foot-long snake with a bulge in the middle of its stomach, and that bulge just happens to be someone's uncle, just a sittin' in there, dead and digesting. Ugh ... More jazz hands, more jazz hands ...
Anyway, the snake was dead -- shaken to death by a kitten. Still, it was a snake, and I refused to touch it, so I tossed two tea towels on top of it.
That's when I thought I saw the tea towel move.
"FFFAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!" I screamed again, then threw two of V's sandals on top. I leapt to the couch and stared at the tea towels until V arrived.
Of course, in clear, hi-def retrospect, I realize I lost my cool over nothing, and should be both ashamed of my behavior and, most importantly, grateful no one had a camera at the time.
Two snakes in as many months, both via cat ... Anyone else been having this problem? And what did you do, other than scream and twirl?
Peace, love and jazz hands ... XOXO
