cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"Now the toad will have 2 hearts\" I spent basically the whole weekend at home with the kids. On Saturday I cleared some brush, pruned the deadwood from the butterfly bushes and generally farted around. Then in the afternoon there was a whole toad-and-snake drama of the type that anyone familiar with my household should basically expect on any given weekend. So I was making barbecued beef ribs. I'd already made the sauce and marinated the meat, then chopped the wood out in the front yard and there I was lighting a hardwood fire in the grill. Suddenly I heard a squeak. It was faint but definite. I kept stoking the fire, starting with a handful of dried grass for tinder, adding little twigs I'd taken off of the butterfly bushes and then thin slivers of maple to get it hotter. Then the squeak happened a few more times. I realized that whatever was squeaking was very close by. I walked around, trying to zero in on it. I thought perhaps it was a baby bird. There is an enormous boxwood next to our front walk, with a cavern-like interior where the kids like to hide and play. Within this boxwood, I first saw a striped snake of about 3 feet in length. The snake was unlikely to be squeaking, so I kept looking and after a few seconds I realized that the snake had grabbed a medium-sized toad by the back end and that furthermore I recognized it to be a toad of my personal acquaintance. This was none other than the toad which Ida and I caught and held and looked at the night before she went to NYC. I ran into the house to get Ida, because I figured she'd want to see this for sure. Ida came running out with me and I pointed out the drama unfolding under the boxwood. "Dad! You have to save the toad! You have to save the toad!" Ok, got to save the toad. I picked up a stick and poked it at the snake, thinking it would release its prey and retreat. Nope. The snake would not let go of the toad, who continued to squeak and stare at me piteously. The snake began to withdraw into the branches and leaf litter out of reach, dragging the toad with it. "Save the toad! Save the toad!" Now Harry had ran out to see what all of the fuss was, and he, too, took up the cry of "save the toad!" Trish stood on the front porch and asked what the hell was going on, which I am not sure if I even answered as I turned around to grab the axe I'd been splitting wood with. I crouched under the boxwood and with a single swing I brought the axe down about 5 inches behind the head of the confused serpent. The blade of the axe was buried several inches into the ground with the obviously badly wounded snake under it, and the snake would still not let go of the damn toad. I left the axe where it was and ran inside bumping into Trish and excusing myself. I grabbed a .22 rifle from the rack in my study and then ran back outside, bumping into Trish again along way and excusing myself yet again. At this point I don't think that she had much of any idea as to what was happening, seeming more annoyed than alarmed. She has long since become accustomed to this sort of thing erupting at the drop of a hat. A .22 rifle is really your best sort of snake gun for very precise work, especially if you've got some .22 shot shells handy. Which I only had time to grab the regular ammunition, but precision was what was called for in order to blast the dear little snake's head apart without injuring the toad in any respect other than his pride. This was a success. The head went to pieces, the toad hopped free and the beheaded body of the snake thrashed about disturbingly as they tend to do. Concerning myself first with the victim, I picked up the toad and inspected him. Several puncture wounds on his posterior underside looked painful, but the sort of thing that he ought to recover from. He was puffed up magnificently in an effort to make himself difficult for the snake to swallow. I carried the toad to the front porch and set him down in the terrarium which exists for exactly this sort of thing. He crawled into the little toad cave made from a broken flowerpot. I pulled the axe from the ground and picked up the snake. The kids were very interested in this part. I chopped off what remained of the head and dropped it on the fire, which was in need of more fuel anyhow. Trish became bored with the scene and went back inside holding her laptop. Harry and Ida and I looked at the headless body for a moment as it whipped around. I decided that it would be a shame to kill something and waste the body, so I resolved to skin and eat the thing. As it happens, it is very easy to skin and gut a snake. They are like a hot dog wrapped in a sock. The skin whips right off easily enough, and after making a slit along the length of the underside one can pull all of the internal organs out in a single go. The whole long mess went right into the fire, except for the heart. The heart was still beating and we were curious as to how long it would continue absent any sort of body. Since I had the fire right there, and the barbecue sauce all ready to go in a pan with the meat, I thought I might as well dip the skinned and gutted snake in barbecue sauce and put it on the grill alongside the beef ribs. Barbequed snake tastes like a cross between very fresh bass and chicken. I only got a few little bites because the kids ate all of the rest of the meat as quickly as I could strip it from the bones. Ida is the girl who refuses to taste such ordinary things as a cucumber or spaghetti sauce. But she had no problem at all with eating the snake that she had witnessed being hacked at with an axe no more than 20 minutes previously. It turns out that a snake's heart will beat for at least 30 minutes after being removed from the body. The only reason I don't have a more specific figure is that after half an hour Ida and I decided to feed it to the toad. Ida said "now the toad will have 2 hearts." Meanwhile, the toad is still recovering in the terrarium on the front porch, feasting on beetles and earthworms. The snake's intact skin is in a bag in the fridge, waiting either for me to get around to stretching it and dusting it with borox, or for Trish to go looking for leftovers and pitch a fit. Whichever comes first. 10:53 a.m. - 2009-06-29 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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