Reptilian Mayhem.

At the ripe old age of 24 and 11 months, I have had to come to terms with a new phobia of mine: Snakes. Snakes of all types, colors, varieties. Why, you may ask, would I have this newfound phobia? Good question. If you figure it out, let me know.

I go way back, with my relationship with snakes. As a child, I was actually quite fond of all critters. We used to traipse through the Bluemont woods (my old stomping grounds) at all times of the year- in the winter, clad in sweats and boots and scarves, and in the summer, in flipflops and tank tops. We splashed in the creek and really owned those woods- we ran circles and carved paths, oblivious and indifferent to the fact that snake holes surrounded us and on occassion, we were able to lay our hands on an old, shed snakeskin. Invariably, they were among us, and we were not phased. In fact, a day where were able to spot a real, skin-clad, moving, breathing snake was one of the best days- it gave us something to talk about! (There wasn't much else where we came from.)

I can remember my dad running over grass snakes with the lawnmower (usually inadvertently), and my neighbor Randy finding a black snake in his yard, which he held up for we kids to touch. We stroked its scales and oohed and aahed, captivated by the mere idea that a serpent was dwelling on our quiet, cozy street in rural Virginia. I can remember my friend Ryan stepping on a copperhead one fall evening, in the darkness of her backyard, which her father brought to its demise shortly thereafter. One summer day as I swam in Smith Mountain Lake with my family, a water moccassin swam up on us. My mother, in a panicked frenzy, herded my sister and me out of the water to safety on the deck of the boat, while my father calmly treaded water and the snake swam right past him, without so much as glancing in his direction. Clearly, his destination was the coast on the other side of the lake, and we were not about to get in his way. At 16, I got out of my car for a tennis match to see that there was a black snake hanging from my car, right next to the tire. He clearly had crawled up into the engine of the car and by the grace of God (I guess, for him, it was by the grace... I could have lived without the surprise), he held on for the entire ride. My tennis coach, Dick, knocked him down from underneath my car and cut his head off with the sharp edge of his Prince tennis racket. It was a tad bloody and gusty, but with all of the small children around the pool we couldn't take the chance of letting him slime his way around the club. So as you see, snakes didn't rank high on my list of fears as a child. If not for the fact that I wasn't a huge fan of bite wounds- a hospital trip would truly detract from my playtime- I probably would have adopted one as a pet.

So when I read a story on CNN a month or so ago about some sick fuck in Arizona who recently fed a puppy to his pet boa constrictor (and is now facing animal cruelty charges), I was mortified. Did I mention he also let two fifteen year old boys watch this, like for recreation? Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a huge dog person. Love them. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I would venture to say that I like dogs more than I like most people. So this story hurt me. Seriously, like a kick in the gut, a knife in the heart, and a serious twige in the gag reflex kind of hurt. And for whatever reason, I was truly phased. I couldn't get the imagery out of my mind that the poor puppy must have squirmed and cried and yelped as he met his demise, and just the general disgust of the act of the snake ingesting the puppy. I realize we can't blame the snake here- after all, it's a boa. This is how they eat and obtain nourishment, and consequently survive in order to produce more boas... ugh. And so ultimately, my irrational fear should be surrounding the sicko who thought this was a great idea for nutritional supplement for his pet boa. But no, the fear is displaced, and consequently I am terrified about the possibility of coming into contact with a boa. (Slim to none, by the way.)

A few days ago, a chihuahua in northern Colorado saved a one year old boy by taking a bite from a rattlesnake. The chihuahua lived, by the way, which is the good news, in addition to the fact that the one year old child emerged unscathed. The bad news is, I now have confirmation that there are, indeed, rattlesnakes in Colorado. Holy shit. I may need to move.

So anyway, last night I had yet another disturbing Animal Kingdom style dream. Actually, this was more like Crocodile Hunter gone bad, but I digress. So in this dream, I am with my baby sister in the yard where we both grew up, on Clair Ct. (Well, truth, we both grew up in the house on the lot, not literally in the yard. We did spend countless summer evenings locked out of the house between 1986 and 1994, when my mother was fed up with us, so a large chunk of our development was spend in the yard.) Anyway, to make a long story short, I was cornered by a fierce looking boa constrictor who was neon orange and had cobra abilities- as in, he stood up and stared me down, with an evil face, and I just kept thinking, holy shit, first he ate my puppy, now he's going to eat me. He even opened his jaw and did that disjointed jaw thing, as I imagine must have happened with the poor sweet puppy, and there was some hissing and a forked tongue. Sweet.

And I woke up sweating.

The animal dreams must cease. Immediately. It's getting out of control. I can't even lay in my bed in the dark tonight without thinking, shit... there coudl be a boa at the end of my bed who is going to start eating me, from the foot up. (Remember that Shel Silverstein poem from "Where the Sidewalk Ends" when we were kids? I believe it was called "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor".) That poem, read so many times by silly third graders who giggle endlessly and find great humor in the situation, now has new meaning for me. Shel Silverstein, this is not a laughing matter. You will NOT be invited to write the eulogy at my funeral.

In the event that a snake leads to my demise, please enforce my wishes. No poetry of any kind at my funeral services. Puppies, yes. Country music, absolutely. Perhaps even a haiku or sonnet of some sort, and if we truly need scaled beings, a lizard or two. But absolutely, under no circumstances, Shel Silverstein or a snake-like animal in my memory.

This is Amy, signing off... hopefully for a long evening of dreams about teddy bears and cotton candy. Wish me luck.