This Was Not Humanity’s Finest Hour
At approximately 11:02am a garter snake measuring approximately 12″-16″ in length crawls out from my kitchen cabinet. No doubt having found his way in from the small gap around the drain pipe for the sink, he finds himself on the floor of my kitchen looking at me.
I look back at him. We both seem equally surprised and confused.
“Okay,” I say, trying to figure out exactly how to greet my new visitor.
He nods as if to say “Sorry, didn’t know anybody was in here. My bad.”
He begins a clumsy slither—no doubt unaccustomed to the limited traction of the linoleum. I open the door of the house and look for a broom, planning full well to help usher him out calmly and peacefully. But before I can manage that he slips into a small crack beneath the dishwasher.
Adventure begins.
11:05am: I wrestle with the dishwasher, trying move it out from beneath the counter. It’s bolted in. Out comes the tool box.
11:08am: Dishwasher is unbolted, but still won’t come out from the counter. I imagine various hoses and wires holding it in place. I stand with my hands on my hips, wondering how much effort I’m about to invest in this, trying to think of a better way to solve the problem.
I imagine the snake curled up in a corner, thinking the same thing.
I see my uncle across the cow pasture.
11:10am: Phone call.
Me: “Hey, Uncle. You got a minute? I’ve got a snake.”
Him: “Snake? Where’s your shotgun? I’ve got some bird shot.”
Me: “No, it’s in the house, under the dishwasher. I just want another person to help me herd it out the door.”
Him: “Oh. Okay. Gimme a minute.”
11:20am: Uncle arrives. He wears thick boots, leather work gloves, and is carrying a long, steel rod. Me: “What’s that for?”
Him: “What kind of snake is it?”
Me: “Just a garter snake. I don’t think we need that.”
Him: “Oh. Okay.” He places the rod against the wall.
11:25am: We’re on our knees, peeking below the dishwasher as best we can. Snake is in a far corner, curled up, watching.
Me: “Okay, I figure I’ll stick something in there and poke at him. Then he’ll run. I just want you to help me steer him toward the door.”
Him: “No. I’ve got a better idea. You got wire hanger? And maybe some rope? A shoestring? Anything like that?”
11:35am: Using only a wire hanger and a length of shoestring, my uncle has rigged some manner of pole-and-loop mechanism. Score one for the opposable thumbs.
11:36am: Snake watches curiously.
11:40am: I hold flashlight while uncle extends his contraption in the corner. Snake observes mechanism, flicks its tongue at it a few times, decides not to be bothered with it.
11:50: Still trying. Snake mildly amused.
12:00pm: After being prodded, snake decides to move into alternate corner behind dishwasher. I notice a hole for piping near corner that would allow snake to get back underneath sink. I scramble to plug hole, throwing books and garbage bags at it.
Various shouts from Uncle and I: “He’s moving! There he goes! Do you see him? Get him! There he goes!”
12:05pm: Snake still unharmed. Lies safely in new corner. Hole leading beneath sink is plugged. Everyone retreats to neutral corners.
We’re frustrated. Beads of sweat well up on our respective brows. I resubmit the original plan to simply scare the snake out and herd it toward the door. My uncle declines. This has become a battle of ideologies: the brain of the savage wilderness vs the tool-using, abstract-thinking descendents of Aristotle, Newton, Jobs, and the rest. For this to be a true victory, it must be one of intellect, and an elegant one to boot.
We persevere.
12:10pm: Another attempt using pole-and-loop tool. I think of nature shows. Isn’t this how they catch crocodiles?
12:20pm: Snake still unharmed. Has moved back to original corner. Seems to be enjoying himself.
12:25pm: We reevaluate original plan. We make another attempt.
12:30pm: Another failure. Snake makes a sudden dash for the neighboring stove. Yelling, shouting, and wild gesticulations from Uncle and myself. Uncle accidentally hits me in the head with a cabinet door.
Snake settles safely into new corner. Giggles.
12:35pm: Uncle: “I’ve got a new plan.”
Me: “Okay.”
Uncle grabs pillow case, cookie sheet, flashlight, and pole-and-rope contraption. His plan: feint with the pole, convince snake to make its way into the pillowcase which is being propped open by the cookie sheet and flashlight.
Snake watches. Thinks: “Really, dude?”
12:43pm: Snake evades both noose and pillowcase, dashes back for underside of dishwasher. Uncle and I scramble. Shouting and mad grabs into tight spaces ensue. “He’s coming your way!” we both shout. I make a grab, slamming my middle finger against one of the steel legs of the dishwasher. I howl in pain.
Snake disappears into darkness of cabinet. My finger hurts too much to flip him off.
1:15pm: We’ve unhooked the entire dishwasher and removed it from the cabinet and have it half dismantled, convinced that snake has found a place to hide within. Kitchen floor is covered in water. My head and finger hurt. Snake still unharmed.
1:30pm: No sign of snake in over half an hour. All of the cabinets have been emptied and searched. We unanimously agree snake must have exited the way he came in: through the gap around the sink drain. We plug the hole.
We debrief like a Navy Seal Team: “Where did we go wrong? How did he escape? Who could have reacted sooner? How did we not cover all the exits? Should we have authorized lethal force?”
In this moment of utter defeat–defeat by a creature with no capacity for abstract thought, with no opposable thumbs, with no limbs at all–I wonder if a shotgun hole in my kitchen floor have been an acceptable loss, just to say we won.
Final Score: Snake: 7; Humans: 0.
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