I wrangled a snake this morning. It was a foot-long baby snake, but it was still a snake - and I wrangled it.
My wife and I were walking into work and about ten feet into the building Leah said, "Oh look, a dead snake." That's when I --with the intelligence of a two-year-old-- poked the snake's tail with my foot. After it slithered away and after I jumped back with the power of a steroidal kangaroo, I replied, “It's not quite dead yet.”
Around this time a coworker was walking down the hall with a small recycling bin, which she plopped down over the mighty serpent.
Now this is the point when a smart person would have walked away and gone to the safety of their gray cubicle, but instead I volunteered to remove the snake from the premises.
I'm not so smart.
Turning the recycle bin on its side revealed the snake in a coiled, ready-to-strike position. And it took no time in striking when I attempted to shoo it into the bin with my backpack. It struck the bag, Leah squealed and I thought to myself, "Oh shit."
Not knowing what else to do, I repeated my shooing attempts until it finally slithered into the bin. In retrospect, I think the snake was a cottonmouth or perhaps a copperhead. I'm not sure because (1) it was small and darted around a lot and (2) I was too busy doing my Jeff Corwin impression to study its markings.
After "securing" the snake in the ever-so-safe recycling bin, I covered it with my bag and took it outside. By the time I let it go, the snake had attached itself to my backpack, and it swung out into the grass when I uncovered the bin. It then struck my poor bag again when I tried to scare it into the woods.
After the snake retreated, Leah and I went to work and bragged about our adventure. All-in-all, it was an fun experience and no one got hurt except my backpack, which is now venom-infused - I have to remember not to lick it.
My wife and I were walking into work and about ten feet into the building Leah said, "Oh look, a dead snake." That's when I --with the intelligence of a two-year-old-- poked the snake's tail with my foot. After it slithered away and after I jumped back with the power of a steroidal kangaroo, I replied, “It's not quite dead yet.”
Around this time a coworker was walking down the hall with a small recycling bin, which she plopped down over the mighty serpent.
Now this is the point when a smart person would have walked away and gone to the safety of their gray cubicle, but instead I volunteered to remove the snake from the premises.
I'm not so smart.
Turning the recycle bin on its side revealed the snake in a coiled, ready-to-strike position. And it took no time in striking when I attempted to shoo it into the bin with my backpack. It struck the bag, Leah squealed and I thought to myself, "Oh shit."
Not knowing what else to do, I repeated my shooing attempts until it finally slithered into the bin. In retrospect, I think the snake was a cottonmouth or perhaps a copperhead. I'm not sure because (1) it was small and darted around a lot and (2) I was too busy doing my Jeff Corwin impression to study its markings.
After "securing" the snake in the ever-so-safe recycling bin, I covered it with my bag and took it outside. By the time I let it go, the snake had attached itself to my backpack, and it swung out into the grass when I uncovered the bin. It then struck my poor bag again when I tried to scare it into the woods.
After the snake retreated, Leah and I went to work and bragged about our adventure. All-in-all, it was an fun experience and no one got hurt except my backpack, which is now venom-infused - I have to remember not to lick it.
