Snake on a Toy Plane

These past three-and-a-half years as a parent have taught me many things. For one, I've learned that not all humans are born with an innate sense of basic physical laws.  My son, for example, does not believe in gravity.  Despite falling down the stairs, off of chairs, and into tables, toys and people, he continues to act like a very short stunt man, quickly toddling toward whatever he shouldn’t get into next.

This behavior is a far cry from what his much more cautious sister exhibited at the same age.  While she did like to explore, she was also inclined to merely sit and play, or sit while we read to her, or sit and mercifully watch TV on Saturday mornings while the caffeine in my coffee mug began to work its magic.  She observed the world around her.  She breathed it all in and considered her options.

Her brother, in contrast, simply grabs an option and tosses it down the stairs.

Another thing I've learned while living with small children is that I never really need to ask the question, "How did that get there?"

"How did ketchup get on an electric outlet five feet from the kitchen table?"  for example, or, "How did the broom get into the toilet?" or, my personal favorite, "How did the snake get into the toy room?"

This past summer, I almost stepped on a snake.  It wasn't a cheap plush snake, the kind one might win at a carnival after spending five dollars popping balloons, nor was it one of those realistic rubber ones used to frighten people with poor vision. 

It was an actual snake, coiled amongst the clutter of our so-called “toy room.”  The only reason I didn't step on it was that I stepped on a plastic golf club first.

Surprisingly, I did not panic, which I think is impressive considering that is exactly what I do whenever a wasp or other such stinging insect gets into my ten-foot "bubble."  That night, however, instead of panicking, I quickly shut the sliding glass door to the toy room and considered my options. 

Like many Americans, I live most of my life relatively apart from nature, especially the parts of nature that bite.  What was probably a rather mundane encounter in some parts of the world was one of considerable importance to me. I knew the snake had to be removed from the house before my wife saw it, or else we would begin yet another five-year search for a new home.

The hour was late, and everyone was asleep except me and the snake.  Ideally in this situation, I would sneak downstairs and get my trusty snake stick. I could then proceed to deftly remove the creature from my home and return it to the wild, all the while video cameras caught the psychotically euphoric expression on my face reserved to all such wildlife television hosts who have dedicated their lives to infuriating dangerous wild animals on film.

Alas, I do not have a TV show entitled "Fairly Harmless Midwestern Reptile Hunter," and so my only other choice, at least considering the time parameters involved, was to immobilize it with a ten-pound dumbbell.

I felt bad about this and still do, mostly because voles have created an amusement-park like series of trails and tunnels around the perimeter of my house and a quality snake would be a great way to curb their enthusiasm.  Unfortunately, the dumbbell immobilized the snake in a relatively permanent fashion, and so the idiot voles are safe until I begin throwing ten-pound weights at them, which means, considering my aim, they are totally safe.

I removed the snake from my home, cleaned up the crime scene, and then asked myself the silly question, "How did that snake get into my house?"

An hour later, after scouring our home with a flashlight and triple-checking all of our rooms for the absence of the creature’s angry, vengeance-seeking siblings, I went to bed, still foolishly pondering the question,  "Seriously, how did that stupid snake get into my house?"

The next day at my parent’s house, while sharing the tale with my brother, a potential answer to this question slid into my head.  My daughter, anxious to gently toss my parent's newest batch of kittens from one cardboard box to the next, pitter-pattered across the kitchen floor, opened the garage door, and exited the house.

She exited the house and left the door to the garage wide, wide open.

"Oh."  I replied.  "I guess that answers that."

"Yep," my brother responded.

Thus ended the mystery of the toy-room snake, at least as far as I was concerned.  I've lived in the home for over two years and had never encountered a wild beast before the serpent incident, nor since, and so I have chalked up the encounter to bad timing.  Someone in my family, probably the one who insists on wearing her ponytails "Barbie style," left the door open long enough for an unfortunate snake to sneak in to meet its eventual doom.  As long as we keep the doors shut, such an incident probably won't be repeated.

Until next summer, when her brother begins to drag such creatures in with his bare hands.