So my dad has this past-time. We have a chart on the fridge of how many snakes he's killed. After today, I've contributed to this list. I'm not sure if I'm proud of myself or if I feel bad for killing them, but it at least made for a funny story.
How our house is built in the backyard, there's some concrete landscaping and it's apparently left a lot of open dirt space for snakes to bury and travel. Unfortunately for us, this means we get a TON of snakes. This also means we have mice, hawks, owls, and we're the only house on the block that isn't flooded with humming birds (sad). My reasoning to not feel bad about killing these slithering creeps is that they've attracted birds that are capable of carrying off our poor, frightened Scottish Terrier.
The story starts yesterday when my dad left, leaving me in charge of the snake hunts. I had never actually killed one before- only watched dad kill them. I had spotted this TINY sort of bright green one and he and I played hide and seek all day. Seriously, the score was Snake:3, Molly:0
So this morning I got up and it was warmer out so I thought there would be some snakes out. I got my trusty shovel and spotted one by a tree. I stabbed my shovel it and... he was still alive. Now, I know it's a garter snake and it doesn't have enough venom to actually hurt a human being, but the thought of picking up that shovel and being attacked by something that creepy just wasn't cutting it.
My mom had come out to take a picture of the hilarity (me stuck with a shovel, one pant leg rolled up from my bike ride, and a snake creeping me out... haha funny!) so I had her get the other shovel so I could try again. Not only did I hit the snake, I managed to stop the rebound of the handle to the shovel with my forehead.
I still, 12 hours later, have a bump on my forehead. However I managed to kill two more snakes after the first one and the elusive baby snake escaped me two more times.
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