Reading Roxana Robinson’s writings on gardening harmoniously with nature, last week’s guest essayist on the Natural Resources Defense Council blog, I was reminded of our precarious place in the natural landscape.
Although I’ve been steadfast in refusing to use any pesticides, herbicides or rodenticides on my hillside garden, I’m afraid I occasionally resort to herpicide (the killing of venomous snakes), particularly when they threaten my grandchildren and dogs.
Some environmentalists find this unacceptable, the rattlesnake having its place in the grand ecosystem we call home. But Diamondbacks and Mojave greens that appear uninvited on the patio (seeking water) or under the decks (finding relief in shade from the sizzling afternoons) are slithering onto my turf, whether they know it or not, and become fair game. Hiss at my babies and you’re toast.
The German shorthair pointer and the Border collie both were bitten when they were just puppies and learned a healthy respect for that particular percussive sound that gave rattlers their name. The vet bills were astronomical but both survived. Now, the German points the intruder while growling, and the collie barks from a safe distance until someone comes to dispatch the snake.
Years ago, I did a ride-along with an animal control officer from the Agoura shelter to see how they handle the dozens of snake calls they receive each summer. This officer was something of a herpetologist and had all the equipment needed to relocate the hissing vipers. If you call the Fire Department, he said, they just kill them.
He, on the other hand, had the time and the long-handled, prong-tipped pole with which to immobilize the business end of the snake and lift it into a long, shallow box with a sliding lid. Once confined, the snake becomes strangely quiet, no hissing or movement from the box.
We drove out Malibu Canyon to a turnout just west of the tunnel where the snake was released to find its way down to the creek, free to prey on hapless hikers. I got the usual lecture from the officer about the snakes’ important place in the environment.
Well, we don’t have the equipment or a safe place to relocate errant rattlers. So I keep a 22 revolver loaded with shot shells on a high shelf above my kitchen sink. It does seem ridiculous to have to pack heat just to irrigate the fruit trees or harvest tomatoes.
So I was unarmed late yesterday when I went down the gravel path to pick some chard leaves for supper. Walking back up with my greens, I heard the warning from a dense patch of flowering shrubs and herbs separated from the path only by a 2-foot, green-coated wire fence. I retreated, figuring the snake couldn’t strike me through the fence, though he could, but probably wouldn’t, crawl underneath. Taking a steeper but more open shortcut, I went for the pistol and a long-handled shovel.
Snake may have known my intent. He was trying to disappear himself under the lavender. I waited. When the head reappeared peeking out from the yarrow, I aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger. Twice. Snake still writhed, flicking his tongue at me. Three, and I heard only a hollow click. Dang! I’d forgotten to reload after plugging the one on the patio two weeks back.
It’s dusk, hard to see, but I go back for more shells. Several shell casings are stuck in the chamber and I fumble around trying to poke them out with an awl. This is beginning to look like an old B movie.
Snake is in the last throes but has managed to crawl partway through the fence to make his escape. He’s too fat for the hole and seriously stuck. The ecologist in me hopes the bulge in his midsection is the remains of a gopher that’s been feasting on lavender roots. So much for the balance of nature.
Trying to get the shovel in position to decapitate the trapped snake is difficult with the wire fencing and dense shrubbery. My son-in-law arrives in time to help. The head, its pits still full of venom, is a hazard to collie, pointer and predators, and must be buried. I’m looking for wire cutters but settle for a long grabber thingy (given to me by the hospital so I wouldn’t have to bend over while the fractured hip was healing). A hard pull on the fat half extricates snake whose body is unceremoniously flung into the wild. Breakfast for a hungry raven, perhaps. I’m left to worry that a raven may ingest the shot and die of lead poisoning. There was a move by environmentalists to have shells made without lead, but I don’t know if that ever was enacted.
Once again, my reverence for all life has been shaken by perceived threat. Well, even Roxana Robinson admits she once attacked viburnum leaf beetles with a pesticide. There are times when the Zen thing eludes me, too.
I hope this means I’ll be around awhile longer, muddling my way to enlightenment.