MindSpinner

Sundays are the perfect day for leisurely pastoral posts, written after an hour in the garden.

Not this Sunday. I had just finished mowing the grass and putting up the mower when I heard the dogs making a terrible fuss, growling and barking in alarm. I walked to look under the deck, where they were holding forth in the corner. They had something cornered, and that something did not have fur.

I couldn’t see so clearly through lattice and wire, but it looked very like a snake, and there were the dogs not two feet from its nose. I ran up the steps into the kitchen and through the garage to get to their pen. They have access beneath the deck for shade and shelter there, and I could just see them getting bitten by this snake. From the other side of the deck I could see more clearly the reared head, black and gray, spread like a cobra. I argued with myself that I couldn’t be seeing a head spread like a cobra because there aren’t any cobras around here. And the markings were wrong.

I called frantically to the dogs, but they were intent on the snake. Finally, the one that hears broke away to come toward me, but he was torn and didn’t want to leave the action. It took me a minute or so to get him to come, to scoop him up and carry him into the house. The deaf dog was more difficult. I could yell all I liked, but that would make no difference. I grabbed the yellow plastic bag that held our new yellow pages phone book, ran back out and waved it frantically, still shouting despite that fact that shouting could make no difference. Finally, the deaf crusader saw me and came away from the reared snake.

With both dogs safely inside and the snake still under the deck, it was one of those moments one rues being single. I have no gun with which to kill a snake, and the only way to get at this one would be to crawl under the deck, which is less than 2 feet off the ground in the back corner where the snake was.

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I called 911.

The 911 operator took my information, did a quick consultation, and returned to the phone to say that the police wouldn’t come to my house to take care of the snake unless it was in my house. I didn’t see inviting it in as an option. “What would you do if there was a snake underneath your deck,” I asked. “Whom can I call?

I was given two numbers for Fish and Wildlife. The second number raised an answer. Fish and Wildlife had someone in my county on call. His name was Benny B.

Benny B’s wife answered the phone and said that Benny B. took care of nuisance animals, but he didn’t do snakes. If I were Mrs. Benny B, I might have said the same thing.

“I don’t do snakes, either,” I said. Just that very minute I was wishing for Crocodile Dundee. Or maybe Harrison Ford in Six Days, Seven Nights.

I called Fish and Wildlife back to tell them that Billy was a dud, and they gave me two numbers for Crocodile Dundees in neighboring counties. The first was a hit. Here was a guy who likes snakes. Here was a guy who would come out to get this snake in the dark, even if he had to crawl under the deck. $75 for the trip. $125 for a nonpoisonous snake. $175 for a poisonous snake. Did I still want him to come?

“There is a snake under my deck,” I reiterated. What sort of silly question was “Do you still want me to come?”

Forty-five minutes later Crocodile Dundee and his wife showed up. Croc donned his snakeproof leggings, looked all around with a flashlight in every corner of the garden. He crawled under the deck with bare, tattoed arms exposed, and prowled about in the yard, all the way back to the back of the lot, which is virtually snake paradise. He lifted the doghouse and looked underneath.

He did not find the snake. I hope I don’t find it either, but I suspect I may one day, while out pulling weeds. I looked up native snakes on the Web and found my snake, an Eastern Hognose - not poisonous to any significant degree, not aggressive, and not unlikely to roll over and play dead, but capable of spreading its neck cobra-style and thus managing to terrify me.

As he turned to go to his car, Crocodile told me the good news about having a snake, and he meant it, “You won’t have any rats or mice,” he grinned.

Callooh. Callay.

So which would you opt for?