The Great Snake Escape or Medea’s Short Excursion
By
Barbara E. Moss
© -
2006, 2007. Barbara E. Moss
My son
Jeffrey likes snakes. He had read up on them and had an impressive knowledge of
reptiles in general and snakes in particular. He wanted a snake for Christmas.
Nothing else would do. He was seventeen. I figured, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, let him
have the snake. It’ll just die and that’ll be the end of it.” O Foolish
mother!
On Christmas morning a beautiful little python was crawling across our dining
room table. Only 12 inches long it had a brown, black, and gold argyle sock
pattern across its back. It was indeed a beautiful animal. And it didn’t die,
but thrived. Jeffrey taught it to “eat dead” which is easier on everybody than
throwing it live animals. I became accustomed, if not happy, with first baby
mice, then big mice, and then dead rats thawing in the bathroom sink. I was not
pleased the time Jeffrey warmed up a rat for his darling in my toaster oven.
I may
have been the victim of a little conspiracy. My husband who teaches biology at
the University of Massachusetts soon had Jeffrey bringing his python to
comparative anatomy class since they excellently demonstrate certain reptilian
qualities. A python brings the most somnolent student to attention—not a bad
teaching technique. Students are always amazed that a snake is scaly not slimy
and even though they are cold-blooded animals their bodies are warm to the
touch.
The snake
was named Medea after the mythological Greek princess and sorceress. Jeffrey
built her a 6-foot wooden cage fronted with Plexiglas. It shared his room at
the far end of the house. Our house is very long. We slept upstairs and when
not at college our daughter now camped in the TV room near the front door at the
point furthest from the boys’ rooms.
One
summer afternoon I was peeling carrots or something in the kitchen for supper.
My younger son Steve was watching TV and came out to the kitchen to grab a
snack, munched, headed back to the TV--and screamed. “Ma! Medea’s in the TV
room!”
I dropped
my peeler and ran. Sure enough! Ten feet of argyle sock was oozing off my
daughter’s desk and onto her dresser. How do we handle this one? Well, I
slammed the door shut and leaned against it. I could hear my heart thumping. I
could also hear pencils and lipsticks falling to the floor.
At least
I had effectively separated mother and son from a big python squeeze. How the
heck did that animal get so quickly into the TV room with no one seeing her?
Where had she been when Steve went for his snack? She had to have passed
through the dining room or through the kitchen and then the living room. Could
she have passed, Gulp!, right behind me and I didn’t know? How did she get
loose, anyway? Caged snakes were one thing, but prowling reptiles were really
beyond my tolerance.
With all
the maternal authority I could muster I said to Steve, “Don’t open the door!” I
phoned Jeff at his friend Mike’s house. Soon both young men lumbered sheepishly
through the front door. “Get that snake out of there. Put it into its cage and
take it downstairs” I spluttered. Jeff didn’t mind securing Medea, but putting
her in the cellar! “But, Mom, it’s cold down there.” Eventually my
exasperation prevailed and Medea took up residence in the cellar.
My
daughter was remarkably calm about it all when she came home from work.
But that evening she
asked me, “Mommy, do you think Medea crawled on my bed?”
We changed the
bedding.