Horny Toads and other Dysfunctional Reptiles

Not long ago, my nephew Joe asked for a “wizard.” My brother, Beau, understood what Joe was saying, and a few days later, Spike the Lizard was on my sister’s doorstep, accompanied by a glass cage, a warming rock, and a bag full of live crickets.

Beau knew what Joe wanted because when he was about Joe’s age, he was fascinated with reptiles. He used to hang out around the creek behind our house and catch snakes, a practice I could never quite appreciate. Probably because I hate snakes.

So when my son asked for a ball python several years ago, I put my foot down. No way, no how, not ever would a snake become a member of my household.

His dad promptly bought him a snake. They brought Freddy (named for Freddy Krueger) home, and I had a fit. That thing would NOT enter my house. So Freddy went to live in the pool house. And every week, Hunter’s dad drove him to the store where Freddy was purchased, a stinky place called Randar’s Reptiles owned by a man named Spider, to buy little white mice for that python to squeeze.

Well, his dad drove him to Randar’s for mice until the week that he didn’t. And the next time Hunter fed Fred, the poor snake was so hungry that he bit Hunter’s hand when he struck at the mouse. Hunter yelped in pain and apparently ran from the pool house, leaving an opening between the lid and the tank just big enough for a ball python to squeeze through.

I'm just glad I insisted Freddy live in the pool house.

We never saw Fred again. After a few months, Hunter was hankering for another snake, and this time I really put my foot down. No way, no how, would we ever have another snake.

And we didn’t for a month or so, just until his dad went out and bought him another snake.

Fang just wasn’t as loved as Fred was. Hunter would forget to feed him for a couple of weeks, and I would find myself at Randar’s Reptiles buying little mice for the python because I felt sorry for a snake.

One Saturday afternoon, I was standing in line at Randar’s waiting for Spider to sell me mice when a guy in his mid-forties with greasy hair and bad teeth walked up to me and said in a very creepy voice, “What kind of snake do you like?”

“Uh, I hate snakes. My son has one, and I’m here to buy food.”

“Oh.” He grinned, then, “What kind of snake do you have?”

“Ball python.” I turned and pretended to be picking out the fattest mice.

After a brief pause, he said, “I like those.”

At that moment, a light went on in my head. I turned back to the creeper and said, “Do you want another one?”

His eyes lit up, and he said, “You’ll just give me a ball python? They’re worth about $80.”

“I know. And yes, I’ll just give you a ball python.”

He hesitated, then asked, “What about its cage. Can I have the cage, too?”

I was willing to give him the cage, the warming light, and – hell – a year’s supply of free mice if he would just take that damn snake off my hands.

Now, I know it’s never smart to let a stranger, especially a creepy one, follow me home. But I also knew I lived in a gated neighborhood and it wasn’t likely he would be able to get past the guards ever again. So I said, “If you will follow me to my house, I will give you the snake and everything that goes with him.”

And he did.

Not counting the Chinese Water Dragon Hunter purchased last October and then returned to Spider after a two months, our home has been reptile-free for a few years.

My sister’s home has become the new reigning reptile house, with the occasional frogs and turtles thrown in just for fun. In fact, Joe announced to the family last week that he was heading out. He had decided to walk to Mexico so that he could find an iguana to add to his collection.

Remember the old nursery rhyme about little boys:

“Snakes and snails/and puppy dog tails/That’s what little boys are made of.”

That may be true. But in all my dealings with the masculine species and their reptilian leanings, I’ve come to believe that perhaps the entire male species is simply suffering from A Reptile Dysfunction.