My lifelong love of animals is no secret to anyone who knows me even a smidgen. Growing up an only child in a valley between two hills, miles from other folks, animals became my companions. I'd climb a tree or sit near the edge of the valley, quietly watching as deer, fox and other critters resumed their activities and viewed me as part of their environment. That is, of course, until I could no longer resist talking to them or reaching out to scratch an ear, which made them flinch and sound the danger alert which, in turn, resulted in a few unfortunate multi-species stampedes. But over time, I was generally accepted as the scrawny, talkative furless one, and I accepted them for their genuine and loyal natures, traits I found scarce in those of my own kind.
Given my upbringing and our close friendship, it's understandable why my West Coast gal pal and her husband would call on me to farm-sit their 44-acre sheep ranch when they need to be away. But it's possible I possess a few other qualities which, in retrospect, might have made my buddies reconsider.
Apparently, I have a slight difficulty with patience, I'm a touch scared of snakes, and I specialize in Murphy's Law.
On my watch, a hawk carried away my friends' prized duck, the entire flock of sheep broke free in the dead of night, and a farm dog bit the buttock of the man hired to build the fence.
But nothing compared to Charlie and the Titanoboa.
Charlie was a large Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, though I called him other things after our time together. He had never been away from his human parents for more than a few hours in his entire seven years. After realizing he was stuck with me, Charlie fell apart. He howled incessantly and repeatedly hurled himself into the living room window. Nothing would calm him.
Meanwhile, back in the guinea coop, I found all the birds silently focused on one corner and discovered a snake, six feet long and as big around as my upper arm. Seeing me, the snake slithered straight up the wall and wrapped around the rafter directly above me.
My mother's wish for my clean undergarments was shattered as I broke the sound barrier in my race back to the house to call the neighbor while Charlie continued to hurl himself into the window. The neighbor expected a call from me to help during lambing season, and I didn't tell him any different. He had no idea he was coming to assist in the apprehension of a monster snake, and I had no idea he was as terrified of snakes as I was.
At day's end, my friends checked to see if things were better after the vet allowed a load of tranquilizers for Charlie. I told them the pills were bitter at first, but I managed to get them down, and I'm feeling much better now, thank you. I'll just be the scrawny, talkative furless one in the tree, rocking in a fetal position. Nothing to see here.
NAN Our Town on 09/02/2015