Snake Charm

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

Some people are afraid of snakes.

Well, most people are afraid of snakes, or at least wary of them.

I’m not, and I don’t recall any time I ever was. As a young lad, I tended to catch them, bring them home, build them warm-light habitats, then enjoy observing them, usually fattening them up and letting them go before cold weather set in. Once I built a wintering burrow to keep a favorite for years, noting how after hibernating he invariably emerged hungry and alert at the first signs of spring.

Mom has never been a fan of snakes. She’s never kept them, communed with them, attended their conventions, or supported their causes. She knows snakes play an important role in the ecosystem, but she prefers they play it somewhere else.

About the time I was mastering that tricky walking-upright skill, we moved to a burgeoning suburb snaking ribbons of concrete through virgin forest, an encroachment that ensured our yards would be overrun by confused critters who never saw the eviction notice. Chief among these marauders were toads, frogs, and of course more than a few toad- and frog-eating snakes. In the coming years, I earned quite a reputation and proved myself a neighborhood asset as the lad often called to retrieve and relocate an uninvited snakely guest. Too often I would arrive to find a terrified serpent clinging to life inside some form of makeshift sanctuary while the man of the house capered about, armed with all manner of impromptu weapons, his hands and arms already thoroughly fanged. The wisest of these great warriors knew the time had come to step back and let the kid do his job.

So call me The Snake Whisperer.

With snakes, it really is about remaining casual and calm. People who whisper to horses and dogs know this. Critters can smell fear, and smell might be the literal term because research suggests that we emit pheromones betraying our innermost thoughts. That’s reason enough to avoid playing poker against any beast that gads about on four legs—or on none.

Still, like most people who puff out their chests, snakes really are as afraid of us as we are of them, if not more.

One summer I convinced Mom to let me move my habitat from the garage to the basement, assuring her its serpently tenant would never escape—which he did, promptly, as if he’d always known the way out but had bided time awaiting his chance to get at the snake-hater.

I searched the basement thoroughly while Mom started packing all our belongings and calling real estate agents. I concluded that the snake had taken up residence in a wall under the stairs, the only place where a gap in the paneling would afford easy access. Learning the serpent was “in the walls now!”, Mom decided there would be no time to pack, we’d simply have to burn the house and rebuild from scratch.

Eventually I convinced her to come down and beat on the outer wall with a shoe while I waited patiently under the stairs for a scared snake to poke his head out through the hole. My plan required me being out of sight, completely quiet and pheromonally calm, which I found difficult given the temptation to guffaw as she rattled the foundation with such exuberant pounding. I still picture her poised to sprint for safety at even the slightest notion of a snake somehow finding its way out her side of the paneling.

I’d like to describe some epic clash of titans, glory on the battlefield, but the anticlimax here is that eventually the snake stuck his head out, and I ferried him unceremoniously to his home—in the garage.

The following summer the habitat hosted a rescued pine snake. Sometimes called a hog-nose, even known incorrectly as a puff adder, the pine boasts a rather impressive ability to hiss while rising up and flaring its neck cobra-style. Problem was, I couldn’t show this off because, like most people who puff out their chests, snakes must feel threatened before putting on such an aggressive display. My snake rather liked me, and he seemed to trust all my pals.

But then he figured out Mom was no friend of the snake.

She really didn’t like even going out to the garage in those days. As soon as she opened the door that snake would carry on, hissing and flaring, the ersatz cobra sensing that this two-legger would just as soon do away with him and his cushy gig, the all-you-can-eat buffet, daily entertainment, freedom from predators, and rent-free digs.

The pine snake did eventually find a new home in the woods near a river. I hope he enjoyed a long life, well-fed, predator-free, his own warm place in the light. Mom still talks about that old snake that used to hiss at her; even after all these decades he’s remembered fondly, which is more than most serpents can say.

If you’re deathly afraid of snakes, it might be worth seeking help, such as through systematic desensitization. Usually, the goal is not so much preparing for a career in snake-charming as just learning to be more comfortable around them, or at least in places they’re found.

It becomes a small world if you can’t go anywhere there might be snakes. It’s smaller yet if you have to avoid every place you could find any critter that might bite out of fear.

So if you’re in the snake’s world and happen across him, just remain calm, then casually move away.

He’ll be grateful you did.

And if he’s accidentally invaded your world, well, I’m sure there’s some kid down the street you can call.

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