The recent news that a local family’s beloved — and missing — pet boa constrictor was wandering in my general direction was surprising and unsettling. It’s not every day that an adventurous 8‑foot exotic reptile joins the suburban menagerie of songbirds, groundhogs, squirrels, and feral cats.
Kia’s outdoor sojourn lasted just a few days, but throughout it she loomed large in my mind. What was she doing, I wondered. Was she enjoying herself or feeling lost and scared? How long could she survive outdoors on her own?
Where the heck was she?
Every time I stepped outside to forage for vegetables or pull a weed, I was acutely aware that I might stumble upon a snake as big around as my arm. How would Kia react if I startled her — but more importantly, how would I?
I have a violent and psychopathic history with snakes. Kia’s big adventure vividly reminded me of this, dredging up painful memories buried deep in the Hall of Shame recesses of my brain. It was a huge relief (for me — I can’t speak for Kia) when she was located in a woodpile one street over and returned safely to her family.
Information soothes me, so during the three or so days that Kia was AWOL, I followed her story on the news, swapped texts and emails with concerned neighbors, and looked up boas on the internet. It helped. I felt less on edge and gained knowledge and respect for big snakes and the people who keep them. But that doesn’t erase my past.
Confession is good for the soul, they say, so I’d like to share a couple of stories that illustrate how badly a generally decent person can behave when irrational fears drive behavior. I hope you find these tales relatable, or at least feel better about yourself after having read them. Just thinking about these incidents makes my heart race and my palms sweat. But since they also say, “face your fears,” here goes . . .
It’s the mid-1980s, and Jeff and I are living in a three-story apartment building on the east side of Lexington. We’re on the second floor with people living above, below, and on both sides of us. Directly beneath us lives Mr. Mello and his wife, who, from the sounds of it, are anything but when it comes to procreation. This biological miracle cannot happen soon enough for us because we like to sleep. We are at that insufferable age and stage in life where we know everything and are infallible judges of character: Mr. M and his wife, we have concluded, are rude and insensitive clods.
One day, a snake of some kind appears on the narrow sidewalk that we all use to enter our apartments. It’s fairly long and seems uninterested in going away. I am on my outside back balcony losing my mind over this perceived threat when Mr. M saunters outside for a smoke and a breather. He sees the snake too, but is unaware of my presence above him.
“Kill it!” I yell down at him, fully expecting he’ll swing immediately into action. He doesn’t. Instead, he continues to stand there, smoking calmly and intently watching the snake. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Just as I’m about to summon him again, he turns slowly, shifting his cool gaze from the snake to me.
“That snake has as much right to live as you do,” he says quietly, slipping back into the shadows below me. Stung and speechless, I stand there a while longer wondering who I dislike more, him or me.
Fast forward to the early 2000s. We’re living in rural Fleming County surrounded by natural beauty. Fleming Creek runs at the base of our back hill, a wildlife preserve anchors our view to the west, there’s a 7‑acre lake out front, and above it all, a sky that never quits.
One early summer morning after Jeff leaves for work, I’m on the screened-in porch, taking it all in. Out of the corner of my eye I sense movement, so I turn my head and see a large black snake defying gravity, moving slowly up the outside of the screen just a few feet to my right. Mr. Mello’s words float back to me but are quickly drowned in a sickening surge of panic. I take a deep breath and will my heart to stop pounding. It won’t.
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The snake, meanwhile, keeps inching up the screen in a way that is both horrifying and amazing. There is no tail in sight, just a never-ending dark line separating me from reality. I want — no, at this point I need — very much for it to drop into the grass and disappear like the one in Lexington did years ago. It doesn’t.
With the kitchen broom handle, I gently poke at the snake’s lined underside from my side of the screen. Unfazed, he continues his slow upward climb. I get the spray bottle and spritz him with window cleaner. His shiny head sways back and forth, but he is otherwise undisturbed. At this point, a rational person might go inside and do something else for a while. I go to the garage and get the flat-edged spade.
When it’s all over, a deep calmness creeps over me, a sense of relief I don’t deserve. Only now am I curious: I marvel at the big snake’s length and girth, the patterned smoothness of his dark glossy scales. His newfound stillness. He is beautiful.
Hesitantly, I reach out and pick up his head. It’s surprisingly lightweight since the bulk of him lies curled at my feet, a frayed black rope cast aside and useless. Carefully, I pry open his mouth with my fingers. Inside, it’s smooth and pink with just a tiny horseshoe of sandpaper-fine teeth. I trace the rough curve with my fingertip and think about how just moments ago he was out enjoying the morning and living his life — just like me.
Since moving home to Winchester 18 years ago, my interactions with snakes have been minimal: small garters gliding through the boxwoods and, last summer, what may have been a juvenile black snake in the carport. I didn’t behave as well as I would have liked during that encounter, but at least there was no bloodshed. I doubt I’ll ever love snakes, but I try hard to concentrate on all the good they do in the world. . . What became of Mr. Mello, I don’t know — but if I knew where he was, I’d apologize and thank him because, of course, he was right. I hope he and his wife are still together and have a great big family with lots of rowdy grandkids. . . The black snake I killed in Fleming County will live forever in my memory, as will my deep regret for taking his life. . . And lastly, I’m grateful to Kia and her loved ones, whose happy-ending saga reminded me of just how insane and dangerous a person can become when acting out of ignorance and fear against those who are different.
