The snake was on the screened in porch. It was black and gray and no thicker than a pencil, curled up in a circle about the size of a coaster. Jess yelled for me when she noticed it, and I’d rushed out to see what was wrong. “Oh no,” I said. “I’m going to have to catch it.”
The fact I hate snakes is no secret. Everyone who knows me is well aware of the terror these beasts inflict on me. I’m not ashamed. I’ve even written about it previously in this magazine. I’ve shared my fear with friends and strangers, my doctor and my therapist, and my family, including of course, my mom, who always rolls her eyes and says, “Grow up.”
A black garden hose, a length of dark rope, a piece of gray tubing on a shelf—I screamed and fled from a variety of inanimate objects during my childhood.
Growing up was the problem. I was raised on a mountainside in Western North Carolina in a home surrounded by woods. There it was not uncommon for a snake to glide under the garage door or sun itself on the deck with the entitlement of a house guest. From early spring until late fall I was on full alert. A black garden hose, a length of dark rope, a piece of gray tubing on a shelf—I screamed and fled from a variety of inanimate objects during my childhood.
When Jess and I purchased our house last summer, I was too excited to think about the possibility of snakes. But a week after we moved in I noticed one by the front porch. A few days later a long black one slithered across the patio and into the back lawn, which I refused to mow for three months. When our security camera caught one shimmying up the brick wall by the basement door, I decided it was time to get proactive.
I ordered a snake grabber from Amazon, the longest one available. It’s so long the post office was unable to deliver it, and I was forced to pick it up in person and haul it through the parking lot while trying to ignore people staring at a guy carrying a giant box with the words Extra Long Reptile Tongs written on the side.
On the screened in porch I extended my reach and gingerly trapped the small snake in the grabber’s metal fangs. It writhed like a tiny demon and I took a photo of it with my phone as proof of my bravery. After I dropped the still very much alive snake in the woods behind our house, Jess suggested I put the picture on Nextdoor, a social media community for our neighborhood, to see if anyone could identify it. I posted the photo along with a note saying that the snake had scared the living jeepers out of me and I wanted to know if it was poisonous. A neighbor responded to say I’d caught a harmless juvenile rat snake that was actually good to have around because they eat mice and voles. I was tempted to tell him that mice and voles don’t make me wet myself, so I actually prefer them.
A month later the comments on my snake post are still coming in. Most agree with the rat snake identification and repeat the ridiculous idea that they are beneficial. But one comment particularly stung. “It’s just a little snake,” a woman wrote. “Grow up for cryin’ out loud!”
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