So, how are the rattlers at your place?

“How are they? Er, fine, thanks, pretty healthy.”
I smiled and wondered if that’s what he meant, this tourist I was chatting with at the coffee shop in town. Here I am in Madrid, NM, talking about rattlesnakes as usual. It’s the season for paranoia. I’m over it to be honest, looking forward to moving to Vermont, a place of bugs and mozzies, something less life-threatening. I can deal with that.

So what do you say to the question about rattlers? Where do I begin? Do you want the statistics of injuries, deaths, human encounters or animal encounters? The names and numbers of those who’ll come take care of the snake for you? Talk of Little Chris, who once drunk as a skunk, thought he could pick one up with his hand. He ended up in hospital for a week. Stories, you want stories? Are you sure?

We had a few bad years, the moisture and springtime brought an abundance of mice, rats, rabbits and snakes. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Or rather, I’m going back too far. Let’s talk about now. In May 2017.

This week, Rosie my mini-Husky/ lab mix, went to the vet for blood work so we can start her on heartworm. We had to sedate her, and that alone took an hour to mellow her out enough to then cover her in a towel while Nan took blood. While we’re sitting around after Harold, the other dog, a Collie/ Husky mutt recovered from minor surgery, and Rosie is trying not to fall asleep, Nan tells me of a rattlesnake bite. Damn, already? I’m not ready, already…

Rebecca’s young dog, Nika, was bitten on the nose, spent the night in the emergency care at the local vets in Santa Fe. Costly, scary, not something I wish on anyone. I forget though, how unusual this is, this risk of rattlers. In a presentation given at Overland Expo in Flagstaff, one of the crowd asked me where I lived since so much of the class was spent on the subject of how to take care of rattlesnake bites and more importantly, all those little things we can do to limit the risks. Like move to Vermont, that sounds good to me.

I’ve been at home in New Mexico since 1993. It’s been a while, I come and go most years, most months even, but rattlers are part of life here. No flip-flops on walks. Cut the weeds and grass near your home and on paths. Clean up the piles of lumber, trash, recycling etc to keep rats away and also so there are less places for the snakes to claim as their own . Don’t walk around at night in the height of summer. Don’t walk around in the evenings and mornings of spring. It’s all about timing, temperature, season. There’s so much to consider. Not that I knew any of this when I bought my land outside of town. Finally, I was a grown up! I had property, twenty acres, an adobe shack to create into a home. All within reach of the local village, it seemed perfect. In many ways, it is.

That first summer though was a challenge, emotionally. Living in a school-bus, raising a new puppy, Harold the Handsome, and building a home while working as a landscaper the rest of the week. Damn I was fit. And busy. It was a good life. I had a home! Well, almost. The shack was about twenty by twenty with a flat roof that leaked, broken windows, dark and dank, with straw and dirt floors. The fourth wall, facing the driveway, was incomplete, some windows, some half-finished stable doors and not much else. I put the mattress inside once I’d cleaned up after the last human pack-rat/ squatter had left it filled with pipes, broken tools and gadgets, dirty clothes, old rotten sleeping bags for him and his kid. I’d claimed it back to health, swept the dirt, put in a camp-chair, a mattress, and a stove for coffee in the mornings. Home, I had my own home.

New Folder (64)

Harold woke me up with a squeak. Dark inside our new home, I fumbled for the flashlight but couldn’t find it. Harold squeaked a puppy yip of fear. A rattle sounded. I froze. Harold shook. At the end of the bed, a rattler coiled up and stared us down. Saying nothing, I slowly climbed out of bed, clutching Harold to me, and hugged the walls, gently moving around the bed and out the front almost-door.

I stashed Harold in the truck. I locked the doors.
No, I don’t know why, but I locked the doors. No snake would get him now.

It was five in the morning. What the hell was I to do? My friends Alexis and Alan were camped on the land with their two kids. I wrote a note and stuck a rock on top so they’d find it on opening their doors in the morning. First light was creeping over the horizon and I craved coffee. To Java Junction then. Down the dirt road and into Madrid we drove. Harold on my lap, me trying not to cry. It was too early though, the cafe wasn’t yet open. I drove to Carol’s and woke her. Eyes still closed, she passed me the tools. I shook my head.

“You want me to do it?”

Nod. Nod. Desperate nod. Carol was one of our local snake-wranglers, and of course I wanted her to do it. I was too freaked out. This was my home. My supposed safe space. Home. Home isn’t meant to be invaded by things that kill. That’s in movies and books. Not real life. Not my life.

“Okay, give me half an hour. I’ll meet you at Java. I need a shower.”

A shower? At this time? It’s too important for a damn shower…but I nodded, mute as ever, and wandered next door. Elisa came to the porch in pajamas.

“Ooh, yes, let me get my gun! I’ll meet you at Java.” She trotted off excited by my news. No need for a shower for the Minx.

By seven o’clock, I’d rallied a team of gunslingers, hoe-holders, kids, families on holiday, families just curious, Grandmas and kin, all ready to take down this snake for me. We couldn’t find the fucker though. My not-quite-a-home was barren, dirt walls, dirt floors, wooden beams and little else. Where could it be? Carol and I slowly lifted the mattress, nope. Then the box spring, nope. I slashed the fabric underneath to make sure, what a nightmare that would’ve been, to find it hiding in my bed the next night. Then Carol mentions how snakes climb. As one, we all look up at the wooden ceilings, above us in the trees but nothing. Carol stepped lightly in ever-widening circles and under a thick juniper some fifteen feet from the house, she found it. A six-footer. Thick of waist and hearty with hissing, it rattled furiously as she caught it in her home-made noose, and dropped it into a metal trashcan. Alexis slammed the lid. Elisa reluctantly put the gun away. The kids loved it: Viv, Sofia, Zoe and Kathryn, all under ten years old and loving every moment. Not me. Not so much. But we were done, right?

Half of the crew left, and Harold was allowed out of the locked truck. He wandered around, sniffing and peeing as puppies do. Then Carol mentioned that at rattlers often pair up.
“I think there’s another one near by. It’s just a sense.”

Oh great. Just great.

Harold was quickly deposited back in the truck. I hid on the far side of the house, rocking manically when Elisa joined me. Five feet something, a Chicagoan folk artist who inspires me constantly with her quirky views and manners, she pulls up the only other chair. The adobe wall behind us hides us from the Sleam Team and it’s peaceful, briefly. She sighs and picks at a rock, making shapes with the scattered debris at her feet.

“They found another. The dilemma now is, what to do with it. They can’t open the trash can because number one wants out. So, I think-”

Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

There goes Elisa’s gun as she finishes by saying, “-that Alexis is going to shoot the second one. She might even-”

Bam. Bam.

“-shoot the first one too.”

I can’t deal, suddenly I’m sobbing in the corner with Elisa awkwardly being there for me. Pat. Pat. We’re not the cuddly type. Pat. Pat. Young Viv comes around the corner with a bloody rattle in her hand, dripping down her five-year old skinny forearm, happily showing “Look what I got! Dad cut it off for me! Do you want the other one?”

“Viv,” says Elisa, “now might not be the best time.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll show the others.” Viv wandered off around back to the activity out front.

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These days, the old timers in Madrid call me Snake: they don’t know that I’d cried. I didn’t mention that part. I did get pretty good at dealing with the snakes on my own. I’ve caught three or so per year in the last nine years up here, killed some, got friends to catch some, and even called Animal Control at times. All in a summer’s work, right? What’s the big deal? It just never ends…

A few years later, we had the snake season from hell. A neighbor of mine was breeding them, not intentionally, but you know, three acres of stuff, piles of broken down vehicles, trash, lumber, firewood, old mobile homes and trailers, his property was a hotbed of snake sex. Nine dogs were bitten that summer. Three died. One was a puppy, a little boy I’d called Eric, he and his siblings used to come hang out with me next door. Too young, too small, he’d swollen and died. My snake magic couldn’t help him. I did adopt the rest of his litter though, fostered until we found them all homes, safe homes.

Snake magic. I say that with a shake of the head. So Santa Fe, I can’t wait to be gone from those who tell me all about snake magic, ask me what I’m transforming or shaking off, pronounce my need to let go of old ways to shed the skin of blah-de-blah-de-bloody-blah. I’m too pragmatic, too bloody English for such talk. I nod, mutely, and watch where I step.

After getting back from the vet this week, Harold was sleeping in the house after having a lump removed, and Rosie staggered around, telling the cat, “I’m fine, fine. Just can’t walk too well, right now. Oh shit, SNAKE!”

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.

The monotonous single bark alerts me. She’s seen a snake. I race out and coach her and Little Stevie, the cat, back into the house. With dog-door closed, I look for the snake. It’s six inches of dried cholla. She was tripping. False alarm. Thankfully. I’m over it. Bloody snakes.

At least the home is finished now.  I can sleep safely.

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Amazon Giveaway: Free copy of Van Life for those lucky buggers

Click on the link for a chance to win a free copy. Only via the app though so pull out your android and click away.
https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/54f123647530401f

van-life-full-cover

Don’t forget the other books too.

 

Van Life: Exploring the Northwest with two dogs and a cat in a van.

Time for another book, methinks. It’s a work in progress but I really wanted to get it out there. I’m still writing and working on the travel report from this summer in the van but as I’m about to head out again for another three months, I needed to finish up this first. I reckon while I’m on the road I can go back to edit, tweak, add and subtract as needed. For now though, I’m pretty happy with the book.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1540359441

Enjoy and pass it on! Thanks.

I forgot to download the cover but here is the back and front, better than nothing.

van-life-full-cover

 Other books are just as good though:

Kristie’s Story (in her own words)

These last few weeks have been pretty amazing.

I used to follow her around all the time but suddenly she keeps picking me up and cuddling me. I used to drive her crazy, always ready to pounce on her lap as soon as she sat down, on the bed, at the desk, outside, it didn’t matter to me. I wanted to be close. Now though, it’s Sleam picking me up and holding me against her chest, sitting down for ages at a time, doing nothing but loving me. She knows that the cancer is killing me. She’s spoiling me rotten and I love every minute!

1
There was a time before Eddie and I came to live with Sleam. I won’t go into details but I will say they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them, which is why I peed on their bed, a lot. That kind of backfired as they dumped me at the Shelter. I didn’t like it there, small spaces, and lots of strangers coming and going. I’d overheard people talking about Eddie, this black and white cat; he’d been there a year already and was running out of hope. He used to hide under the cages all day long, all on his own. Eddie didn’t play the game you see, the ‘customer service smile and purr game’. I got to hang out with him though, I liked him, he was my age almost, and a funny cat. Anyway, one day, this tall woman came in and lay on the floor and talked to us both as we hid under a huge cage in the corner room. Eddie went over to her, purred loudly, and then climbed onto her lap. I was amazed. I followed him. She took us both home. Life has never been so good.

3

It’s funny how much I love being held these days. I used to fuss and cry when she’d pick me, but Sleam would stroke me, once, maybe twice, and then put me down again. It felt good to be held though so I let her pick me up more and more. Now though, like I said, it’s her coming to me. My tummy hurts and it feels good to be held so I let her cuddle me. The other night I fell asleep on her chest. The dogs were on the bed too, well, not Harold, he’s happier on the floor-tiles.

10

I usually join him during the night but this time, it rained and Rosie and Ollie and even the annoying little kitten Stevie slept with me and Sleam. Stevie, I shouldn’t call him little any more, he’s bigger than me now I’ve lost all this weight. He was the one-pound weakling when he was found in a woodpile and came to live with us. He got so sick that Sleam had to hold him to her heart for days before he started drinking goat’s milk.

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Anyway, the little tiger, Stevie’s learnt to be a great little mouser. Sleam’s home will still be rodent free; that was my job you know, keeping the kitchen clean of critters. Eddie, he went outside most days, hanging out in the yard, watching the birds, didn’t catch anything but he liked to hang out with the dogs. He even raised a few puppies. Eddie didn’t come back one night though; we’ve all missed him horribly. Stevie makes me think of Eddie, he wants to be a dog too, always playing with Rosie and following Ollie around the yard. Funny boys.

8

These last few weeks Sleam and I have a new routine. She feeds me junk food, oh my, oh my, I do love this food. Whiskas, Friskies, fresh salmon, ham, you name it, whatever I want she goes to Santa Fe and picks it up, even catnip!

6

I can’t keep the food down any more, but I try to hide how bad it is. Sleam hears me though, wakes up in the middle of the night, and simply cleans up my mess then strokes my head until I stop heaving. She picks me up and takes me to bed with her.

12

I hadn’t wanted to tell her about the cancer but her friend the vet worked it out. Sleam didn’t take the news well, but I didn’t expect her too. She rallied around though. Her job even let her have time off to be with me. I’m glad. She’d talked to the vet and they’d decided on a Friday to let me go but I wanted Thursday. I kept telling her, each time she held me, but she didn’t hear until she got to work one day. That voice in her head was me. Her boss told her to take the day off.

5

Yep, these last few weeks have been pretty amazing. Today, Thursday, the dogs sniff me, sleep next to me, they’re being gentle. I like being near them all. Even Ollie is cuddling me. He still steals my food but I don’t mind.

11

Stevie is outside in the tree, oh here he is, come to check on us. Rosie takes a nap with me whenever she gets a chance.

7

Sleam is writing. I sit in the sun and dictate to her. It’s a good day. I’ve had a great life – did I mention that? Life with Sleam and family has been wonderful. I know I’ve been loved. How good is that? I’ve known love.