Every Memorial Day weekend we meet friends at a cabin in Burnside, Kentucky. Four adults and six kids, ranging in age from 5 to 11 (the kids, not the adults). Saturday morning, the kids were on the porch playing, the wives were out on a lovely nature walk, and I was comfortably plopped on the couch doing absolutely nothing. My relaxation was broken by a blood-curdling scream of "TIIIIMMMM!" from my friend and three kids sprinting up the steps screaming "SNAKE!"
Read on...
Warning: Cruelty to animals below--and I don't care.
Now, before I go any further in the story, you have to understand that I am mortally terrified of snakes. For absolutely no reason. I have never had an encounter with a snake. I have never seen an uncaged snake much closer than 50 feet. Yet I am terrified. I won't even look at a picture, and I absolutely refuse to go in the reptile house at the zoo. If I see a snake, my pulse quickens, I sweat, and I immediately get chest pains. I'm not afraid of anything else: Lizards--OK. Spiders--OK. Lions and Tigers and Bears...OK. Snakes--wet-my-pants afraid.
If you've followed the story closely so far, you have noticed a problem. Three kids came running inside. My friend is on the lower level. The wives are on a walk. But three kids are missing. They're still on the porch. Now I have a choice to make. Kids or snake?
Being a good father, I reluctantly convince myself to do the right thing--but to my own dismay, the quickly put together cost/benefit analysis turned out much closer than I would like to admit.
I run to the basement and see my friend standing by the door pointing. In the deep recesses of my demented mind I'm hoping everyone has overreacted and I am going to be staring at a 3 inch garden variety snake. No luck. Instead I am looking out the door at a 25 foot Burmese Python.
OK, maybe not, but it was a 5-6 foot long black snake of some variety about as big around as a telephone pole.
OK, maybe not. No matter. It was long, big and menacing.
Summoning our inner fortitude, we managed to wrangle the remaining kids around the side of the house and in through another door. Now we're all safe--except for the wives, but they can fend for themselves for all I care at this point. We're inside and safe. They're outside and on their own. Who says chivalry is dead?
One problem. Pablo--as the kids came to name the snake--didn't show any signs of wanting to leave.
So my friend and I did what any two red-blooded American males faced with insurmountable obstacles would do...we decided to man-up.
In the closet in the basement I found a hoe and a shovel. I handed my friend the hoe and I took the shovel and we headed out to face the evil. I should probably mention at this point that I forgot to put on shoes--I don't think my capability for rational thought was all there.
We moved out onto the porch behind Pablo and stood staring at the 25 foot nightmare. A hiker walked by the cabin and my friend called her over with "Do you know anything about snakes?"
"Not much," she answered.
"Does that look poisonous to you?"
"I don't know, but I wouldn't take any chances," she said.
Good advice, I thought.
"I'd kill it," she said.
I was afraid of that.
My friend came up with the plan. He would pin it down as close to the head as he could with the hoe, I could then come up from behind and hack off the head with the shovel. Good plan.
Attempt 1: My friend strikes a mighty blow and pins Pablo to the concrete. Pablo immediately recoils and wraps himself around the hoe handle. My turn to move in and finish him. Unfortunately, he is pinned too close to the wall and I can't get the shovel in to take a good whack. My friend announces "I'm going to try to scoot him away from the wall so we can get a better shot." Good plan.
Attempt 2: Did you know that threatened snakes are REALLY fast?
And really angry?
As soon as the grip of the hoe loosened Pablo turned and lashed out at us. Luckily the cat-like reflexes of my friend slammed the hoe back down before Pablo could take his anger out on our lower extremities. Did I mention that I wasn't wearing shoes?
At this point we have drawn an audience. The six kids have ventured back outside to watch the proceedings. The wives have returned from their walk. After finding out what is going on, my wife is awestruck to find that I have not passed out in a pool of my own vomit, and in fact have engaged in a battle with the demon Pablo. Major husband points for me!
Attempt 3: The audience screamed loudly as Pablo tried his counter attack. He is now pinned about a foot from his head, writhing in an attempt to get loose, still in a position that renders the shovel useless. My friend readjusts again and manages to pin Pablo just below the head. This is my chance. I inch forward in my bare feet, shield myself behind my friend, and strike with the blade of the shovel. Nothing. I strike again. Maybe a glancing blow. The audience screams. Mortified. But impressed at our bravery. We battle on. Blow after blow. Finally, I sever the beast's head and scoot it away--you know, so it can't reattach itself.
What?
It can happen.
I saw it in a movie once.
Did you know it takes over 15 minutes for a snake to stop moving after it's head is severed?
And it's really creepy and gross.
And did you know that facing your fears doesn't prevent nightmares?
And just so you don't think I'm lying, here's picture of Pablo just before the end of ages battle.
Anybody know what kind of snake it is? We think it's a Copperhead but it seems a little dark for that. Anaconda?
