Snake-sitting

A few weeks ago, Business Editor Jason Smith mentioned that the Beacon might need to snake-sit for a few days.

“No problem!” I said, and waited for the punch line.

There wasn’t one.

Mr. Smith had phoned biologist Clive Petrovic to ask about photographing a Virgin Islands boa for last week’s article on the endangered species.

Mr. Petrovic had promptly offered to loan him one of the rescued boas he keeps at his house.

Naturally, I was terrified. I knew all about VI boas after reading the insightful comments posted on a news website that recently published a photo of one.

Many commentators were so scared by the photo that they forgot the basic rules of spelling and grammar:

“Could you imagine going home one night and seeing that giant snake in front of your door even if you know what kind of snake it is it would scear the bjesus of of you.”

“Scarry, man, scarry.”

“The virgin Iislands boe is dangerous to ppl with there body when they squeeze u to death and then eat you. who they trying to fool.”

I wasn’t sure who they were trying to fool, but I knew I didn’t want to get eaten. So when Mr. Petrovic showed up at the Beacon with a plastic cage, I leaped up on my desk.

“We’re all going to die!” I screamed. “Don’t let it crush my bones!”

Harmless reptile

Okay, I’m only joking.

I knew perfectly well that the VI boa, which rarely exceeds four feet in length, is no more dangerous than an earthworm.

And I also knew that the online photo was a trick: The photographer held the snake in the foreground to make it appear much bigger than it was.

That boa, like the one Mr. Petrovic brought to the Beacon, posed absolutely no danger to anyone who’s not a rat or a lizard.

Still, snake-sitting was an enormous responsibility.

“What if she escapes?” we asked Mr. Petrovic.

The biologist wasn’t worried: The worst thing that could happen was that she (she was a she) would make her way outside to her natural habitat and do what she does best: eat baby rats, mice and lizards.

In fact, that’s exactly what happened to another snake Mr. Petrovic had loaned to Cedar International School recently.

“What about feeding her?” we asked.

We were amazed to learn that VI grocery stores, which have shelves devoted to cats and dogs, don’t sell snake food.

This, Mr. Petrovic, explained, meant we would need to catch lizards for her. But he was quick to add that this task is not as arduous as it may seem: Boas only need to eat about once a week.

On hearing this, I was starting to consider trading my cat Bamboo for a pet snake. But on first glance, the boa didn’t seem to have much personality.

“Can we pick her up?” we asked.

No problem, Mr. Petrovic said.

When I let her wrap around my arm, she squeezed gently and didn’t seem to mind at all.

Then she bit my finger.

Mr. Petrovic chuckled. Since boas aren’t poisonous, even their bite is harmless. Probably, he speculated, she had simply confused my finger with a lizard.

The best thing to do, he said, was wait until she let go, which she did without even breaking the skin.

Still, I couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t exactly cuddly. She didn’t purr or wag her tail or otherwise express affection like other pets.

However, VI boas do have another way of expressing themselves, I soon learned: They release a putrid liquid out of their tail end.

A few days later, we decided to feed the boa for the first time. So we caught a lizard behind the office, put it in the cage and turned on a video camera.

The lizard froze up, terrified.

For a few minutes, the snake made a few half-hearted strikes at it, then appeared to lose interest.

“Great,” I said, turning off the video camera. “She’s too dumb to catch a lizard.”

Then there was a sudden movement in the cage, and she had the lizard in her jaws, with her body coiled around it. It happened so fast that we didn’t even get any video.

We took plenty of photos, though, as she slowly squeezed the life out of the lizard and swallowed it headfirst.

Field trip

Once we felt comfortable with our new pet, Mr. Smith and I took her on a field trip to the Althea Scatliffe Primary School.

The teachers and other adults we passed in the hallway were terrified, and stayed far away from the cage.

The students were different: They screamed in terror at first, then immediately begged to hold the boa.

First, though, she needed a name. Out of several suggestions, they voted for Sharlon. Then they asked dozens of questions:

“Is she dangerous?”

“Nope.”

“Can she eat a person?”

“Nope.”

“A cat?”

“Nope.”

“Does she bite?”

“Next question.”

One brave student even held Sharlon. Fortunately, she stayed on her best behaviour. But when another asked for the privilege, Sharlon released putrid liquid from her tail end, stinking up the classroom.

This action, I understood, meant she was ready to return to her temporary home at the Beacon office.

After getting a name, Sharlon seemed to have more of a personality in the succeeding days. The next time she bit my finger, it almost seemed like a gesture of affection.

I let her hold on for a long time, watching closely as she worked her jaw in an effort to sink her teeth into my flesh. If I didn’t know better, I would swear she was smiling.

 

Disclaimer: Dateline: Paradise is a column and occasionally contains satirical “news” articles that are entirely fictional.

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