Going on Snake Patrol

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A neighbor recently flushed a couple of copperhead snakes out of our cul-de-sac. The heavy rains are driving the serpents to higher ground, from what I have read. This has caused great consternation in our household, which is uniformly not fond of snakes. That includes the dogs.

I am not scared of snakes, exactly. I just want them to keep their distance. If they decline my invitation to leave the premises, I will dispatch them as efficiently as possible. Machete, shotgun, shovel — I have options.

Rats, I’m scared of.

In a previous life, I returned home one night to find a big, black snake curled up in the garage. I made this discovery by nearly stepping on it as I entered the house. I am not sure what kind of snake it was, just that it was not venomous. I know what copperheads, coral and water moccasins look like, and this was almost certainly harmless. So I decided to dispense mercy instead of mayhem.

I went in the house and out the front door and got a long-handled shovel out of the shed. I crept back into the garage with a flashlight. Then I began poking the snake, which hissed and started leaving the garage. As I watched from the safety of my pickup’s bumper, the snake turned around and went right back to its spot by the back door. I poked him again with the same result. So the third time I whacked the snake in the head, ending its existence. That is my three strikes and you’re out rule.

My maternal grandmother would have been disappointed with me. She had a pet garter snake in her garden out in the New Hampshire countryside that would come out and sun itself on a rock as she talked to it with her charming French-Canadian accent. I did not inherit her love for snakes to even the slightest degree.

After the report here of copperheads in the neighborhood and being the lone male — Sam the Dog doesn’t count — I was dispatched on snake patrol. This consisted of walking around, looking for snakes among our azaleas and piles of pine straw. I am opposed to looking for snakes; it strikes me as looking for trouble. As expected, I found no serpents. I began Googling snake repellent and determined two products were sold at the Big Box Store, which is where I headed. The more popular uses granules, but it was sold out at every store I patronized. So I bought the alternative, which is hooked to a water hose and sprayed. It is all-natural and puts out a scent snakes are supposed to hate.

Apparently, snakes are repelled by the smell of cinnamon, which along with cloves, was the primary ingredient in the bottle. The bottle, which cost $18, was enough to cover our entire yard. I kept watching for a parade of snakes exiting the premises but again saw nothing.

But, boy howdy, our yard smelled wonderful. I went inside and asked my Beautiful Mystery Companion to come outside. She loves cinnamon and faithfully tops her espresso and foamy milk with it every day. “Our yard smells like you hope heaven will,” I said.

Actually, I just thought of that line. Wish I had thought of it then.

She agreed it did indeed smell wonderful, though I noticed she stayed safely on the deck, out of the path of any snake fleeing the scent.

The scent lingered a few days, until thunderstorms rolled through. I hope the snakes did not. My BMC asked if I would treat the yard just before Abbie’s high school graduation party at our house in two weeks. Sure, but at $18 a bottle, this is likely the final spraying. I’ll just keep a hoe handy.

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