I've been watching this snake try to wrestle her fat butt out of the fence for about thirty minutes, now. Not in a creepy way, though I do sometimes wish she wouldn't lift her enormous tail so high. I get out of bed at eight, make my coffee in the kitchen, sit at the dining table, and out of my window? Two tubby, scaly legs, wedged in the gap between the fence rails. I don't know if she tried to go in head-first or tail-first, but she committed to it at some point. And for that, I respect her.
I'm no snake professional. Just a really, really avid home biologist. Hi. My name's Murdo Macleod, I'm a native Scotsman and now live in Northern Oklahoma, in a rustic little cabin provided by my work. No, I don't wear a kilt every day. No, I don't say "aye." I was raised on American television. No, I'm not a freckly, carrot-topped ginger. I'm a natural glossy black, with skin so clear it'd put a crystal ball to shame. Anyway, less about me. More about the situation in the prairie.
I know that she's been out there for a while, because she's supposed to be nocturnal. She had to have been there since dawn, at least. I guess all it takes to overpower mother nature's will is four wooden posts. Her species is the Alexander Monna, but most people just call them Monnas. Every time I've heard them mentioned here, people just say "Mommas." My guess as to why is because females are the ones you mostly see. They're about twenty times more common than males, especially in hotter parts of the country. In adulthood, they grow to about ten feet tall. The one in my garden right now is certainly heftier than textbook examples. No offence. You're gorgeous. Live your truth, queen. They hunt at night, and they're incredibly venomous. So, no. You don't want to see them in your garden.
That's why I'm still here with my presently cold coffee and suddenly less interesting newspaper, watching her from the safety of my very respectable little wooden hut. Which, by the way, could totally withstand a wolf's best huffing and puffing efforts, contrary to popular belief. She's still not free, but she's not fighting anymore. I know she's still alive because if I move my head just right I can see her glaring at the ground. If you're not American, then you've likely never heard of the Alexander Monna. Luckily, you've got me to debrief y'all city folk. They're huge snake-human hybrids—well, I use "hybrids" loosely. Very little human genetic material exists inside them. For the most part, all it does is let them be bipedal, have two legs and two arms, and pull faces like the one she's making right now. An angry snarl into the grass. How do I know she's a girl, I hear you ask? Paragraph one, second sentence. Biology is rarely glamorous.
As much as I'm enjoying watching a snake's massive, wriggling rear end, hunting habits tell me that she's been here since last night. She could have eggs waiting, too. I wouldn't want to keep her worried. Fine. I'll go out there and risk neurotoxic death in the middle of a field in my Garfield pyjamas, all so I can add another imaginary gold medal to my mental list titled "Reasons Why I'm So Amazing." It'll look good up there, right between "Saved a butterfly from drowning in a bucket when I was nine" and "Switched to decaf for 3 weeks." Wish me luck.
Well, that could've gone smoother.
I prepped a little better by filling my oven mitts with sponges from under the sink, creating the world's least effective snake gloves. I brought my saw out from the shed, because there was no way that her two thousand pound rump was just slipping out of there, fence intact. And I just didn't really feel like spending my morning rubbing butter all over a snake's ass.
When she saw me coming, she started freaking out all over again. Call me crazy, but today is Monday. Maybe she hates Mondays, too? Or maybe she just hates me. Hissing, spitting, and thrashing her tail. Rude, much? Well, to be fair to her, I must've looked like a complete lunatic in my orange pyjamas with swollen oven gloves and a hand saw which refused to stay in my hands.
She tried to get me a couple times with her fangs. Which, by the way, are absolutely terrifying up close. That actually goes for most of her. I knew she was big, but it was so different up close. And she smelled really awful. Unwashed body and sweat.
It was over pretty quickly, but she did kick me in the jaw when she got free. You're welcome, lady. Jeez.
Now I'm left on my kitchen chair, nursing my face with a bag of frozen carrot slices that'll go in the trash after. I don't even like carrots, so if you think about it, this is a win-win for me.
Somewhere out in the woods there's a giant snake with an ass that won't quit, all because I saved her. She would've escaped eventually, but the fence would be destroyed. So I saved the fence, too, sans one post.
Go, me!