Reflections - A July Thing

Ande

It’s a July thing.

July 14 the cats cued me. Ande, who demands his morning cuddle while I’m in the midst of ablutions, jumped out of my arms and strolled to the bathroom door. He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting me to follow him into the great room. Rills, who either sleeps on the sofa or plays keep-away when I exit the bathroom and reach for him, waited for me behind the hewn log chair. And Gilbert slept with one eye open in the chair by the coat stand. Limp, soft, yet observant, he complied with his morning cuddle before wiggling free. He crossed the great room to sit, back against the coffee table and glanced up at me. Then he stared at the floor.

On the floor curled a skinny, one-foot long, striped snake.

Rills circled to the sliding glass door for a clear view of the baby garter.

Ande brushed past me and stationed himself beside the reptile.

Keeping my eyes on the snake and the cats, I called, “There’s a snake in the great room.”

Spence set his coffee mug on the kitchen table. “Where?”

“Next to Ande.”

Before I could fetch a container to plop over the snake—my way of getting rid of invading wasps—Spence grabbed a handful of paper towels. He scooped the baby garter, opened the sliding glass door, and tossed the snake.

It sailed over the deck railing and landed in the yard.

“Was it dead?” I hadn’t seen it moving.

Spence nodded and closed the door. “I wonder how it got in.”

Wondering how a young snake had slithered into our house of cats triggered deja vu. Only this wasn’t just a feeling.

July 25, 2022, I was washing dishes when the cats fussed around my yoga bag on the great room floor. Curious, I wiped my soapy hands and investigated.

A foot-and-a-half long garter snake coiled by the bag, which I’d left beside the wood stove

because I’d done yoga on a wet deck earlier in the morning. Ande, Rills, and Gilbert formed a tight semi-circle beside the snake. Rills stretched his paw and tapped the snake’s scaly skin.

 

Rills

Fast-stepping for a snake-size container, I called to Spence, working on his sofa-office. “The cats discovered a snake.”

Spence jerked. He set his computer on top of files littering cushions and crossed to the winter accessory box by the coat stand. “I need gloves.” Instead, he grabbed a knit cap and scooped the snake. With the reptile dangling from his hatted-hand, he opened the front door, and tossed the snake over the porch railing.

The cats sniffed and pawed the yoga bag.

Perhaps the snake’s brother or sister lurked inside. “Spence, would you please empty the bag on the porch?”

Grumbling, he complied. Blocks, yoga gloves, gripper socks, a strap, and a blanket tumbled out. No snakes.

After I’d gathered the gear and the cats had settled for naps, I asked, “How did the snake get into the great room?”

“It probably curled in your mat.” Nudging Ande to the side, Spence resumed his cat-warmed office seat. “The snake came in with the mat.”

Horrors. I couldn’t have carried the snake inside. Could I? Maybe it slithered in the open door while I retrieved my laptop, which I use to stream yoga videos.

Stretching for yoga with spiders and carpenter bees is tolerable. I would rather not stretch with snakes. “We need snake repellent for the deck.”

The rest of the 2022 summer I took deep yoga breaths of fresh air mixed with an odor reminiscent of moth balls—sweet perfume to me since it kept snakes away from the deck and the great room.

July 2023, the beginning of a new garter snake live birthing season, arrived without the protective perfume hanging over the deck. Distracted by ticks and trips then buck and berries, I’d forgotten the need to spread snake repellent. That may explain why we had another snake in the house. But the morning of July 14, I hadn’t opened the side door for yoga yet. How did the latest snake get in?

We’d had snakes in the basement twice before these two uninvited great room visitors. The basement screen door didn’t close tightly so snakes could, unfortunately, enter there.

Putting on an imaginary detective hat, I questioned Spence. “I assume the snake wasn’t in the great room earlier this morning?”

“No. Charlie stood right there.” Spence pointed at the vacated-snake spot and headed for his coffee mug. “We talked. He left for work. There was no snake.”

Okay, our son would have noticed a snake on the floor at his feet. “So neither of you opened the sliding glass door.”

Spence nodded as slowly as if moving his head through molasses.

I glanced around. “Perhaps the snake slithered in the front door when Charlie went to work.”

“The woodpile’s by the door.” Spence sipped coffee that had cooled while he dispatched the snake. “Snakes can hide there.”

Rills clawed Spence’s jeans.

“Or the cats found the snake.” Spence picked his buddy up and scratched his chin. “They left us an offering.”

Our three furry friends had seemed to be waiting for us to acknowledge the snake’s presence. And if the cats found it, the snake could have sneaked in any door—basement, front, or sliding glass. The baby garter could have been in the house hiding for who knows how long. A creepy thought.

Giving up on detecting, I made a plan. To discourage snakes from crawling into the great room in July, I marked my google calendar for an annual June 30 task: SPREAD SNAKE REPELLENT.

It’s a June thing.

Gilbert