True Grit

I recently went into a pet shop just to browse. I had a few minutes to kill before an appointment. I suppose it’s been more than a few years since I’ve been in a pet shop. When I was a child, I spent countless hours watching the birds, fish and fluffy little creatures for sale there.

The pet shop of my youth is no more. At least that’s what the little girl with the earbob in her tongue said from behind the credit card machine. (I can even remember cash registers.) This particular store was more like a Wild Kingdom production than a pet shop. I kept looking for Jim Fowler to appear at any moment. I knew Marlin Perkins was safely hiding across the street or behind some snake-proof glass somewhere talking to somebody about insurance.

Anyway, pet shops used to sell puppies, kittens, hamsters, little white mice, parakeets, canaries, maybe a guinea pig or two and fish—mostly gold. Not anymore. They now sell "pets" that can injure or maim you. They even post signs warning of the danger.

"Iguana will bite!"

"Do not stick fingers into water—piranhas will bite."

"Do not stick fingers into cage—Codi Mundi will bite them off!"

And, "Please do not tap on glass" reads the sign on the snake aquariums.

"Don’t you sell any Cocker Spaniels or parakeets or calico cats?" I asked.

"How old are you anyway?" Responded Earbob Tongue.

"Old enough not to spend no three hundred dollars on a snake," I replied. "I just killed a huge one in my garage yesterday, and if you charge by the pound—he’d have brought five hundred dollars or better."

"That’s a horrible thing to do. Snakes are our best sellers and they are very intelligent and clean," she hissed.

"I’ll say they’re smart—it took me and my sledge hammer half an hour to track down that scaly forked-tongued demon and smash him into snake puree."

"I first saw him as he approached the main garage entry. I yelled at him. He ran (if a snake can run) behind some boxes and into the corner where he coiled into a circle."

I immediately thought of my last close encounter of the scaly kind. I was nine or ten at the time and my daddy and I were quail hunting. The dog flushed a covey and we dropped two of them—one about twenty yards away and the other a bit further fell into a patch of briars. I let the dog fetch the one in the briars. I put down my gun and began looking for the other one. Within seconds I heard that dreaded noise and I froze dead in my tracks. There, a foot and a half in front of me, was the mother of all snakes coiled in the hollow of an old tree stump and rattling its tail vigorously.

Daddy called out in a calm but commanding voice—STAND STILL. Being the obedient child that I was, I looked down at the snake and then bolted for the highway. I was half-way to Sopchoppy by the time Daddy caught up with me.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Ireland," I responded.

"Why Ireland?"

"I hear there ain’t no snakes in Ireland."

"Get in the truck, son."

That was nearly thirty-five years ago and since then, I’ve given up running because it’s an unhealthy activity. Running can cause you to have a heart attack or you could step on a rock and fall down and break your leg. I’ve now been to Ireland and learned that a terrorist bomb will kill you just as dead as a rattlesnake will. I could give the house to the snake, but I’d still have to pay the mortgage.

There was only one option—me or the snake. I climbed on top of a chair in case he chose to attack. I grabbed a post hole digger, leaning against the wall and raised it above the coiled snake looking carefully for his head. I couldn’t identify head from tail. For the record, snakes as a part of their satanic nature are mind-readers. Just as I was about to slam him with the posthole digger, the snake took off to the other side of the garage as he regrouped to attack.

I had him on the run. I began tossing boxes from one end of the garage to the other as I searched for the menacing, slit-eyed, forked tongue devil. I found him stretched along the wall behind a sheet of plywood. He was a lot bigger than I had first thought. I reached for a sledge hammer and pounded the slimy monster into snake-burger.

"How could you do such a thing?" Earbob Tongue hissed as her pupils turned to slits and the earbob in her tongue began to rattle.

I bolted for the door. I was half way to Sopchoppy by the time I realized that I had left the truck parked in front of the snake shop. Maybe I will take up jogging.