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Does the Snake Know?

Patricia Walkow

    Something moved on the side of the brick patio outside my door.
    The four-foot-long roll of bird netting seemed to have a life of its own. It was all bundled up, this unused portion from last summer, waiting for me to cover my tomatoes with it.
    Must be the wind, I thought. But again, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it move.
    My husband, Walt, walked into my home office and looked out the door. “Do you know there’s a snake trapped in that netting?”
    I stood up so I could see beyond the top of my desk, which partially obstructed the view outside. There certainly was a snake caught in the nettingÉa snake four or five feet long.
    “It’ll get out on its own,” he said.
    “No. It won’t,” I responded, moving my head from side to side.
    It was trying to move, gasped, and wove itself deeper within the net’s squares. This was a struggling animal and an object of unjustified vilification and fear—as most snakes are. Never having draped bird netting over anything, Walt didn’t understand. No snake could ever get out of fine netting once it’s stuck in it.
    “It can’t get out; look at it,” I urged, pointing my finger in its direction. With every frantic twist it made, the netting wound tighter and tighter, forming strictures in at least five places on the animal’s body. “Please call animal control. I don’t know if it’s a rattler or a bull snake, but I can see it’s going to die if we don’t do something.” Though neither type of snake is a constrictor, the irony registered: a snake being squeezed to death.
    Walt made the call and returned to my office, informing me that he couldn’t get in touch with animal control, but left a message. He returned to his own office, a few steps away, but without a view of the snake in distress.
    But I couldn’t wrench my eyes from the writhing reptile. Nor could I ignore its death throes three feet away from me as it fought its coming demise in a way I’d have to witness, as though I were attending an opera where it takes the soprano thirty minutes of the last act to finally succumb to consumption. Only this unfortunate soul didn’t have thirty minutes. Its mouth, misshapen by strands of plastic wound around its neck, gaped wide.
    I couldn’t stand watching it die. If it weren’t for my carelessness leaving rolled netting on the patio, this poor creature would not be in this predicament. I had an obligation to it.
    Obsessed with the suffering serpent and completely distracted from whatever the heck I was doing on my computer, I got up, grabbed a pair of fine embroidery scissors, and picked up a few thick potholders. Thoughts raced through my mind: a rattlesnake, being a viper, would have a triangular head and a hallmark rattle at the end of its tail; this snake, though colored like a rattler, had no rattle. But its head looked confusing. Its face was distorted by the strangling netting around its neck.
    Exiting the door, I sat on the edge of the chaise lounge where the mass of net and legless reptile was only a foot from me on the ground. I lifted the bundle and studied each ligature around the snake. Then, I covered the animal’s head with a thick potholder, placed the tangle of snake and net on my lap, and cut the thin nooses around its body, working from tail to head. It complained, whipping its body around my arm.
    “Stay calm. I’m helping you.”
    One, two, three constrictions removed, I felt the snake relax in my hands. Limp. Quiet. I must have released some pressure by now. Or was it dead?
    “Don’t be dead. It’ll tick me off.”
    Snakes aren’t slimy and this one’s dry, scaly skin bore a brown, tan, and taupe pattern. Assigned a disproportionate share of bad karma, most people don’t realize snakes aren’t unctuous, slippery critters and refuse to touch one, even in a controlled setting. These same people might find another reptile endearing—lizards. But snakes? Aren’t they simply reptiles without legs? Not that I seek encounters with them. I just don’t think they’re satanic.
    I continued examining the snake’s body. A clump of netting was stuck four inches behind its head, and I managed to snip it so the only remaining mass was right at its neck. I think it sensed some relief, because it wriggled, trying to escape.
    “Good, you’re not dead.”
    I lifted the potholder from its head, noticing the animal’s distorted face looked less swollen.
    “Now don’t bite me,” I admonished as I recovered the snake’s head.
    Cradling its head with one hand, I exposed just enough neck to cut through eight strands of netting. Once I finished snipping, the beautiful snake broke free but headed back toward the rolled-up netting. I snatched the large wad of lethal tiny squares away, watching the creature slither from the patio.
    My husband came outside. “You got it out of the net! I would’ve waited for animal control to show up.”
    “It’d be dead by then. And besides, I’m pretty sure it was a bull snake. They’re very helpful for keeping the mouse population in check.”
    “I’ll call animal control and let them know not to come.”
    As I placed the netting in a secure outdoor cabinet, the snake paused on some fine pea gravel. It turned around and headed back toward me, settling into a corner on the patio. Unafraid. For a few minutes, I watched it examine the entire perimeter of the patio before it disappeared, free, into the garden.
    I wondered if it knew a human saved its life.

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