“I’m proud of you, “ says DJ. “Supervising your granddaughter on a horse while talking on the
phone WHILE catching a big snake...you can multi task!”
Over a year ago I stopped in the middle of writing my last Rhythms of the Farm entry – “To be
continued”. The intro had mentioned The Great Snake Drama, but the entry never got that far. As I
remember back to the night in question, I recall only a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories...rescuing a
chick from our big dog (yes, it survived) and checking out what had happened to its siblings at the barn.
I found a big rat snake in the process of swallowing one of our half-grown chicks, as the mama fluttered
in distress nearby. I was so horrified and angry, I did what I had never imagined me doing—I grabbed
that snake behind the head. The snake, fixated on the chick it was devouring, paid no attention. I forced
it to drop the chick, but it was too late. It had already been asphyxiated.
We tied The Snake in a feed bag. I wanted DJ to drive it right away to an uninhabited-by-people
stretch of woods miles away, right then. However, it was late, we were tired, and my husband assured
me it would be fine to wait until morning, with the snake shut in the feed bag, which in turn was shut in
his work truck.
A statement he has yet to live down. In the morning, we found both the feed bag and the truck
empty. The snake had escaped.
All my heroics for nothing. I was heartsick. Especially when, a few months later, we found our
little black Mama Hen dead in the midst of signs of a valiant struggle, all of the eggs/hatchlings she had
been sheltering vanished. She had apparently fought to the end trying to protect her babies against The
Snake, but lost the battle.
Last month, I spotted The Snake in our goat hay feeder hut, but couldn’t get to it fast enough
before it slid into a hiding place.
Now, I can finally write The End to the Great Snake Drama.
Today, as I was leading little Sara (now five) on our Peruvian Paso mare, Tamaya, we were
heading down the driveway toward the gate when I saw it. The Snake. Crossing the driveway toward a
stack of firewood. So long it almost spanned the driveway from one side to the other.
I couldn’t let it escape again.
I swept Sara off the horse, handed her the rope, and told her to lead Tamaya away. Bless Sara
for all those lessons where she had learned how to lead our horses correctly. Bless Tamaya for her sense
of connection to Sara, to follow her direction. They started off toward the house while I hurried toward
the snake.
I had already been in the midst of a phone conversation on speaker with a friend, now privileged
to hear the play by play as the drama unfolded.
First, the scream upon sighting the snake. Sarah, my friend in Virginia, you heard that scream
when we flushed out a big black snake on the way through the pasture to feed horses years ago. Jenny-
my-college-roommate, you probably remember it from a night when a rabbit startled us as we were
making our way across campus, spooked by warnings of an on-campus rapist. Through the decades I
have learned to control the scream somewhat, holding it below its original blood-curdling level. Thus,
my friend didn’t get the full effect--but at least I didn’t terrify our horse.
So now I stand near The Snake. It continues in its stately path, unfazed by my presence. I know I
have to act quickly, or once more it will disappear, only to lurk nearby and reappear at the worst
moment.
I pause and eye its tail. No rattles. I look again at its head. I ‘m pretty sure it’s not the triangular
viper shape. I hesitate. In our nine years at this farm, although our neighbors have run across various
species, we have only ever seen one poisonous snake. Even that one I think arrived in the chassis of
someone’s car. I think our animals help keep the snakes away, except the otherwise harmless corn or rat
snakes that prey on our chickens. Even those, we’ve only seen occasionally. A blessing. I am not a snake
lover, although I endeavor to protect harmless varieties.
The snake continues on, slightly picking up its speed. In one swift motion, I plant my foot on its
head, suddenly realizing I am wearing my lavender house sandals. Why in the world had I forgotten to
change?!
The Snake begins to lash its tail, trying its best to rattle. I look again—no, no rattles. I gather my
courage and grab under my foot for the neck, just back of the head.
I got it!
But now what?
I stand in the driveway, holding fast to a gi-normous long fat writhing snake. Last year after the
Great Snake Escape, I researched Methods for Effective Snake Securing. I learned that professionals use
a pillowcase. For a year I kept a pillowcase ready in the grain bin in the barn, but it had been moved
when we saw the snake in the hay feeder.
I can’t see myself walking into the house to the linen closet while holding the lashing (five foot?)
snake.
Sara?
I walk back toward the house, my arm extended out as far as possible to try to avoid the
gyrations of the snake bumping me.
Tamaya is placidly cropping grass, her rope looped over the front porch rail. Good job, Sara.
Sara peeks out the front door, ready to flee once more.
“Sweetheart, can you bring me a pillowcase?” I call.
She disappears.
In a few minutes she emerges, proffering a couch pillow.
“Thank you, sweetheart, but I need a pillowcase.”
The pillow disappears. A few minutes later, Sara comes back, holding a ...folded sheet.
“Thank you, but I think that’s a sheet. I need a pillowcase to put the snake in.”
She eyes me, eyes wide, then disappears once more. I stand, holding the twisting snake.
Moments tick by.
She appears again, carrying a smaller something. She comes down the steps, circling around
Tamaya.
I think she has a pillowcase.
“Just bring it part way and you can drop it. I’ll get it,” I reassure her. I don’t want to bring the
snake too close to the horse, possibly startling her--although Tamaya seems 90% calmer than I am at
the moment.
Sara continues her wide circle, somewhat toward me.
Her mom, our daughter Abby, pokes her head out the door. “What’s happening? Why was Sara
crying and screaming?”
She sees the snake. “Is that alive?”
“Yes.”
She comes out onto the porch with her phone. “Why don’t you cut its head off?”
“I’m trying to be ecologically responsible. Sara’s bringing me a pillowcase to tie it in.”
Now both of the younger generations are looking at me as if I am crazy.
“Hold it up straight so I can get a picture.” Thanks for the help.
Sara drops the pillowcase for me—fortunately not one of our new ones—and retreats. I wonder
how I’m going to get The Snake into and secured in the bag without risking a bite. I kind of toss it down
in, quickly knotting the open top closed.
It’s too hot to set the bagged snake in the bed of our pickup truck, ready to go to town. If I put it
down somewhere, what if our dog tears into it and lets it out?
I see our small cat cage nearby. I put in the bag with the snake, latch it, and set it in the shade.
Sigh of relief.
“Okay, Sara, good job! Do you want to finish your ride now?”
She nods emphatically.
“Where’s your helmet?”
“I threw it down inside when I was scared.”
She retrieves it. We finish her ride, then put Tamaya back in the pasture and switch to Arrow,
our 17 hh Kentucky Mountain Horse. He’s been waiting patiently in the shaded ring ever since the
families left, shortly before The Snake appeared.
I lead Sara on Arrow. From his tall back, she can reach to grab an edible pink mimosa anti-
depressant “happy flower”.
She plucks it, looks at it, then says, “Here Grandmama, this is for you. You deserve this.”
She hands me the precious flower. I solemnly munch it. We go on with our ride.
Back near the barn, preparing to put Arrow away, Sara swings sideways in the saddle and
perches there, not ready to dismount.
She sits. I stand.
“I love Arrow. This is so peaceful. You can hear the birds and the horses eating.”
I stand, looking up at her. I’m ready to be out of the sun, to put away the saddles and ropes and
helmets left out after our event.
I listen. She’s right. I can hear birds, and horses munching on their hay around the corner of the
barn. I look up and see our granddaughter’s contented smile.
Later, back in the house, Sara suddenly throws her arms around me and says, “I love you,
Grandmama.”
Which makes up for later, when on the way to town I realize I forgot the cage with the snake to
drop off along the way.
“I saw on YouTube that snakes have teeth. It can probably bite the pillowcase and make a hole
and get out,” Sara says with relish.
“Should I turn around? But then you probably won’t have time to play at the Splash Pad before
it starts raining.”
We go on, visions of snake escapes flitting through my thoughts.
Finally that evening, I load the cage. DJ, home from work, goes with me. We drive several miles
and stop near uninhabited fields.
DJ opens the bag, tips out the snake, and watches astounded as it beelines for the open cat cage
and takes refuge.
No way!
DJ picks up the cage, upends it in some bushes, and we hurry back to the truck, The Snake saga
finished.
We hope.