T had a close encounter with a snake yesterday on our verandah.
We woke up to an extra-noisy dawn chorus at around 4:45 a.m. on Monday. Sparrows had built a nest just outside the east window of the bedroom, under the eaves, but above the awning over the second-floor verandah.
As the sun was rising, we heard this unholy ruckus, twittering and squawking so loud that it seemed the birds were invading the room, like something out of Hitchcock.
A bleary T shuffled down to the bathroom; I stared at the clock, grabbed my lavender eye mask and tried to go back to sleep. I don’t have to be up till about 9:30, as I work evenings and don’t usually get to sleep till 2 a.m.
The birds continued to invade our consciousness.
Then our son’s first alarm clock started buzzing in the next room. It starts off softly, then works itself up to a crescendo. He shut it off and rolled over, presumably, because about 15 minutes later, his second alarm, the one with a jackhammer sound, began dancing across the wooden floor beside his futon. We heard every bounce.
Normally I sleep through it, but not this time.
So I got up and stumbled downstairs. Son was eating the night-before leftovers for breakfast: chicken legs and a veggie mix. I gave him a kiss on the head and crawled back up the stairs to bed.
I finally fell asleep, and dreamed of being chased, escaping down winding streets in a mountain town, dashing in and out between old Japanese houses—images brought on perhaps by having watched “For Whom the Bell Tolls” the night before. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman, the original screen idols, were incredibly handsome and riveting, even on the tiny, analog screen. The rest of the cast was great, too, all Spanish or other Europeans portraying the Spanish Civil War rebels. Classic Hemingway. He got the human frailty and passion down perfect. But he invaded my dreams.
A few hours later, I am up and dressed and ready for work. As I close the bedroom door, I notice a movement outside the verandah door. It looks as though a thick black rope is swinging down.
But it’s not windy today, I think. I take a second look and see it curl up on itself.
“Aaaah! There’s a snake outside!”
T trundles up the stairs, with that “I have heard you scream at nothing before” look on his face. He is carrying a fly swatter.
That will only piss it off, I think.
He looks out, and says, “It’s an ao daisho. Have to get it from outside.”
He goes to get the pincher arm tool he uses for retrieving stuff that falls under the sofa, and we head out on the balcony, using the door on the other side of our son’s room.
I stand bravely back about 4 meters, while T goes right up to the snake and tries to grab it around the middle.
After about three misses, he manages to toss it over the side, into a black bamboo tree, the small kind that is bushy.
It is only at this point that I remember about the camera, but it is out of batteries, so I go outside and use my cellphone instead.
The dark rope hanging in the bamboo leaves is the critter: an
ao daisho (Japanese rat snake), which they assure me is harmless.
It looks slightly fat in the middle—a baby sparrow?
Epilogue
This morning, outside the west window, a baby sparrow was perched on the sill, chirping its little head off. It flew up to the roofline that extends away from the window, and then off up into the trees. So at least one survived the snake attack.
