A few weeks ago a terrorist visited my home.
I didn't consider the snakes to be terriorists until that afternoon, when one took it upon him or herself to slither through the slats of my back porch.
I declared war.
My dad and I (and my valient little brother, Snickers) went on a snake hunt. We looked in all corners of the property - under bricks, vines, leaves, bushes, and finally by the deck - the most likely of all locations. We found two snakes pretty quickly, but they wriggled under the deck before my dad's weapon of choice could snag them.
Here's Snickers, trying to find them for me.
Some hide under these bricks.
The next day Natalie and I found this in the very spot I first found a snake. Its skin
seems to be a form of mockery of the snake's part: "You'll never catch me!" I see it as a foreshadowing:
I got this; I'll get you next!"
I had two plans of attack: mothballs, and this cat, who has taken it upon himself to live under the front porch, meow incessantly, and NOT catch the rascally snake.
Today, I was out watering plants and I saw this in the very spot I had earlier spotted the snake skin:
Yes, folks, that is a dead, headless snake.
Vengeance is mine.
The paperwork made sure to point out the fact that I'm single.
But when I came home tonight and greeted my house, I knew it was mine. All mine.
