A few days ago, I told you all about the snake…
OK – the stick.
Apparently that was just the rehearsal.
So yes. It was not a snake.
I overreacted.
I do that sometimes.
But never—never—in my wildest, most dramatic, slightly exaggerated imagination
did I expect to be corrected that quickly.
Today, hubby and I had just made it back to the lake after a highly glamorous “load random stuff into the truck at the city house” excursion.
We pull in.
Park the truck.
I hop out to throw away our mobile lunch trash like the productive, responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be.
I round the corner to the back of the house…
…and there it is.
Coiled.
Right by the garbage can.
Just sitting there… waiting… for me.
A snake.
A real snake.
A big, fat, long, brown snake.
And I did what any calm, measured, rational woman would do.
I froze completely…
and screamed at the exact same time:
SNAKE! SNAKE! SNAKE!
Hubby?
Near the truck. No response.
Middle S’kiddle and friend?
On the deck. No response.
Neighbors?
On their porch. Watching the lake. Living their best lives.
Also no response.
Excuse me.
Still frozen in place—because apparently my body chose statue mode over survival mode—
I tried again, hissing out:
S—N—A—K—E!
Nothing.
Not a twitch.
Not a “what’s wrong?”
Not even a courtesy head turn.
At this point, it became painfully clear…
I was now the woman who cried wolf.
Except the wolf was now very clearly a REAL SNAKE.
And I had no credibility left.
So I yelled again, something along the lines of:
“Everybody in this cove can hear me screaming SNAKE and y’all are just going to ignore me?!”
Which felt fair.
And accurate.
And possibly a little loud.
Eventually, hubby wandered over—casually—like I had called him to admire a sunset.
Middle S’kiddle came closer too.
And when I said, with urgency and dignity,
“It’s a SNAKE,”
they both did that little backward step.
Oh NOW we’re listening.
Good.
Now that I had their attention I explained- very clearly— that this was not a stick situation.
This was a real, actual, confirmed snake,
and it had slithered itself right behind the Herbie-Kerbie on wheels… like it lived there.
Still… skepticism.
Because apparently once you misidentify a stick one time, your word is forever suspect.
So now their doing a full investigation.
Everyone has to come see it with their own eyes.
Like a jury viewing evidence.
Meanwhile, I have not moved.
Not an inch.
Still yelling some version of “snake” on a loop.
And then…
Hubby sees it.
Pauses.
And says the words that restored my dignity:
“Yeah… that is a snake.”
WELL.
I’LL.
BE.
From there, hubby did what all good hubbies do.
He handled the situation.
Efficiently.
Heroically.
Without me having to participate in any way whatsoever.
Which is exactly how I like my wildlife encounters resolved.
So yes.
I confused a stick for a snake.
And then I spotted an actual snake…
and was ignored by everyone within shouting distance.
I would like the record to reflect:
I was right the second time.
Which is the one that mattered.
Pull up a chair… just not near the trash can.
-Pattie
Third Act With Pattie 