I was sitting with Steve, near the front window, watching him squint. “Is that a snake?” He wondered aloud.
I turned to watch something squirm across the drive. “Ohhh, I could take a picture.”
“You better hurry,” Steve called. The snake was inching his way toward the pond just beyond the fence line.
In my church finery, heels and all, I trotted across the drive. After snapping the photo, I yelled. “You need to kill it.” Of course he couldn’t hear me, so I hippity-hop back to the terminal with my hand slicing across my throat. Sign language for kill the snake. Once indoors, I cried. “Kill the snake. I think he’s poisonous.”
“Leave him alone,” Steve said not budging from his chair. “Let him eat the insects.”
“But he’s copper colored, and he flattened out his body,” I reasoned, while producing the picture on my camera. I knew this piece of evidence would prove I was right and he was wrong. I felt Steve needed to find his Tarzan attitude and kill the massive 6 inch snake.
“He doesn’t have a diamond head,” Steve announced casually.
I sighed that womanly sigh. “But what of the children?” My last hope.
“Do you know how many snakes live by the pond?” Steve arched a brow.
I set my camera down on the table. “I haven’t seen any.”
“Now you have!”