Rescue Efforts

I have nothing but respect for most of God's creatures. I even like snakes. From a distance.

Steve would say I'm fooling myself.

Imagine my horror when I casually shuffled...barefoot...into my garage yesterday morning to behold one of the glue traps our exterminator had tucked behind the deep freeze, harboring a captive. You guessed it. The trap had magically walked itself about three feet across the garage floor and was sitting there, unapologetically. All I could see was a dark loop of body hanging from one open end of the little cardboard box. It was about as big around as my finger. That glimpse alone inspired in me what's known as the "vermin dance." If you're female, you are already doing it in your head. For the guys, it involves a lot of tiptoeing in place and vigorous shaking of both hands. Muffled noisemaking optional, but encouraged. Once I got that out of my system, I decided to examine the thing. Yep, still alive. A little black racer, a bit longer than a foot in length, had probably slithered in there after a spider and found himself utterly befudged. He'd managed to get his head and various points on his body well gummed, right onto the roof of the trap. He sat there, terrified, his tongue flicking out periodically, his sides heaving...and every time he squirmed I flinched. The little fella and I spent about an hour together right there in my driveway, as I painstakingly pried him loose with a pair of fingernail scissors. I was finally able to release him , covered in cucumber melon scented baby powder (to keep him from re-sticking as I worked), into the woods behind our house. He looked fairly traumatized, but without serious injury. I was pretty proud of myself. God speed, little guy. Stay the crap away from my garage.