Slither, Hiss and Scream..Part II

         

Continuing the sage of snake, my doggies and me

          Math is not my strong suit but some very quick calculations were forming in my mind.  Back door is open…snake is two feet from door… me, two feet from snake…broom within easy reach of my left hand.  The solution seemed simple.  With one quick swish of the broom that snake could be flying through the air and out the door.  I would immediately follow-up by slamming the glass door shut.

          I swished and the snake disappeared.  But was that outside or inside, behind the curtain hanging at the door?  I had not calculated the lip at the bottom of the sliding door and I couldn’t see any slithery thing outside.  A questioning look passed between me and my doggies.  Clueless.

          Then we all moved at once.  I slammed the glass door shut and the three of us took off up the stairs.  Being in the living room with a flight of stairs and a fairly solid door between me and snake did nothing for my nerves.  How much room does a snake need to slither under a door?  I grabbed some towels and jammed them against the quarter inch space.  Now we were safe…at least until the morning.

          Then I did stupid thing number two.  I called my husband in Texas.  Trying to remain calm, inbetween throwing furtive glances at the door, I recounted all that had transpired in the basement.  I kept repeating that I wasn’t sure if the snake was actually outside or still in our house.

          There was a long silence from my husband.  Then very gently he said: ‘Honey, just what do you want me to do?  I’m on the other side of country.’  Good point.

          The doggies and I had a fairly restless night.  At least I did.  They snored on regardless.

          The next morning it was time to be brave; this time, with a pair of hefty shoes on my feet.  Gingerly, I checked behind all the furniture in the basement being careful not to disturb anything too much.  No snake.  I walked outside with a sigh of relief.  I must have swept snake out last night after all, I thought.

          As I turned back my eye caught something curled up against the glass door.  Snake was enjoying the sunshine from within my house.

          Lots of hysterical screaming for my neighbor to present himself followed.  He got the snake out with a shovel and promptly decapitated it.  Lots more sighs of relief.  Now I was safe – definitely.

          But I was puzzled why my neighbor kept walking around my small yard, shovel at the ready.

          ‘That was a baby copperhead,’ he explained.  ‘I’m looking for its Mommy.’

          Great.  Now I could look forward to Mom coming to get me and exact revenge.

          But, all turned out okay and my basement door was never left open again.  My dogs would have to wait to be let out or leave their offerings in the middle of the floor.  Hey, I’d much rather pick up dog poop than another snake any day.

 ******

PS.  I'll be playing tour guide to a friend who's coming to visit for a couple of weeks.  I'll resume my Blog posting towards the end of July...

Slither, Hiss and Scream - Part I

          I loathe air-conditioning.  I hate the thought of breathing regurgitated air with all windows and doors firmly shut while the effects of a stunningly clear blue sky is a pane of glass away.  For this reason, my idea of air-conditioning is an open window, an open door and a fan creating a soft breeze.

          Some years back and for a while, we lived in Virginia.  Our house was one of those cute two-storey jobs with a fully finished walk-out basement.  At the time, my husband and I were the proud owners of two adorable cocker spaniels and the basement was their turf.  Consequently, while I was locked up in an air-conditioned igloo upstairs, the basement door was left open so the dogs could come and go at will.

          And so it was on a balmy summer evening, with my husband away on business, I wandered down to check on my four-footed kids.  Despite the frigid conditions upstairs, I was dressed appropriately for a hot July night…shorts, t-shirt and bare feet.

          A small lamp which lit the basement all night…the better for the doggies to see their way in and out…cast a pleasing glow over the room.  Walking further into the room I noticed a fairly large stick lying on the floor.  Obviously, one of the dogs had dragged it in from our pocket-sized yard.

          Without much thought I gave the stick a kick, thinking to send it flying outside.  The stick immediately coiled, raised a full half of its body length upright and let fly with a glorious hiss.     

          Crikey!  And eeeek!!

          I stepped back and froze.  A furtive glance at my two canine heroes told me no help would be forthcoming from that direction.  They were both sitting up on a corner sofa ready to enjoy the show and no doubt bury my body in the yard if it became necessary.  So, what to do?

          Despite the fact I grew up in Australia, often publicized as a country with the largest number of venomous snakes, in all my years there I had never seen one.  Unless you include the overfed, snoring coils presented by Taronga Park Zoo.

          When you think you’re going to die, time does not stand still.  Instead it makes you stupid.

          I knew I had to get the snake out of my house…dead or alive.  But how?  Keeping my eyes on snake, I reached behind me and grabbing a can of spray, I emptied it over the snarling serpent.  What brilliance!  Did I really believe I could fly spray it to death?

          I think the snake coughed once.  It definitely gave me a dirty look as it again raised its body and showed me its teeth, or is that fangs?

          Here ends Part I… The continuing saga of snake, my doggies and me will continue in my next blog post.

           

Where The Heart Is...

          Living in Hawaii, people laugh when I say I’m planning a vacation to spend several weeks elsewhere.  After all, Hawaii for many is their dream vacation spot.  But when it’s also the place you call home with all the daily grind of housework, garden maintenance and even trash pick-up days, it loses a lot of its luster.  So for several weeks of the year I try to venture further afield; somewhere different I can enjoy new people, amazing food and a different culture.

          That’s not to say my mouth is watering for insects lightly poached in toilet water nor do I particularly want to visit a tribe of people with suspicious looking bones in their noses.  But a nice civilized place with museums, art galleries, a new language to try out after weeks of Rosetta Stone type cramming…this to me is bliss.

          And so it was last year that my granddaughter and I were in Paris.  We’d had days of seeing all the touristy stuff and were looking forward to a quiet dinner in a pretty local restaurant.  I have this penchant for patronizing little corner shops and hole-in-the wall eateries, mainly to encourage the owners.  After all, it can’t be easy to start a business and then watch it go down the drain due to lack of customers.  So, since every little bit helps, there I am handing over my measly euros.

          But, perhaps I should have been a little more selective about our choice of restaurant that day.  At the height of the dinner hour there were only two tables occupied and we were at one of them.  The rest of the room yawned empty around us.  And it appeared that our maitre d’ was also the waiter, the cook and the busboy.  But hey, why quibble…French food is known for its greatness!

          I can’t remember exactly what I ordered as an appetizer, but I do recall it was okay, if a little sparse.  So I was really looking forward to my main meal…in this case a dish made up of beef strips and noodles.  It looked yummy.  Unfortunately it didn’t taste as it looked.  The first bite was a chunk of gristle, the second a lump of something fatty and the third was obviously the cook’s belt cut into bite size chunks.  The dish was truly awful.

          But what to do?  I didn’t want the owner/cook to feel discouraged about his culinary efforts, yet I was nearly gagging at the thought of eating any more of the cut up cowhide.  So, with a sleight of hand that would make Houdini proud, I dumped the pieces of meat into my table napkin and pushed the entire mess into my handbag, much to the amused horror of my granddaughter who was quite enjoying her main course selection…obviously not beef and noodles!   

          It was suggested to me later that I should have complained and perhaps ordered another dish.  The problem with that is, since I’m not used to French food, perhaps the dish was meant to be as it was.  Perhaps beef with noodles in Paris is meant to be eaten only with teeth as sharp as a buzz saw.  And I certainly didn’t want to be accused of being an ignorant American!

          We left the restaurant with my bag bulging with a purple napkin stuffed with meat strips and a few noodles, which I dumped into a trash bin a block or so further up the street.

          I wonder if one of the many homeless people in Paris, found it later that night?  Dinner – yum.  Not only steak and noodles, but napkins as well!  How very French!