BOSTON GLOBE (Massachusetts) 06 January 09 A matter of scales - An ophidiophobiac tries for a new perspective (Bella English)
Weymouth: The dozen people sitting in a semicircle were there to see Dr. Gregory Mertz perform a miracle: teaching people to get over their fear of snakes. The problem was, only two suffered from ophidiophobia, which is Latin for "Get me out of here NOW!" The rest were "herpers," or snake enthusiasts, along for the fun. In fact, most of them had their own pets with them - a rosy boa, an albino corn snake, a western hognose, and a baby boa - tucked into a squirmy cloth sack, or a plastic case. Or, in one case, a pocket.
I sat as far away from the snakes as I could, next to the other guy who was scared. But even he was borderline. "I'm cautious about them," said Dick Austin, whose 16-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, sat across the room, a snake curled around her wrist like a bracelet. Both father and daughter volunteer at the New England Wildlife Center, where the class was taking place. While his daughter loves "exotics," Austin prefers his pets to be "at least 40 pounds, with four paws and a cold nose."
Mertz is the "odd pet vet" and board chairman of the nonprofit center, which treats sick and injured wildlife and runs educational programs for the public. Of course, he loves snakes. Just that morning, in fact, he had operated on a copperhead named Colleen, draining an abcess from her mouth.
The wildlife center just celebrated its 25th anniversary. Knowing that snakes strike fear into many a heart, Mertz tries to educate people, on a drop-in basis, about the scaly creatures' more lovable qualities. "I've done it lots of times and been successful," he said, though he conceded that some snake-phobes are "hard-core." He added: "I'm not a therapist; my lingo is herpetology."
Ophidiophobia is one of the most common phobias, up there with public speaking and spiders. From time immemorial, snakes have been an object of obsessive fear and loathing. In the Garden of Eden, what was it that brought man down? What was Medusa's head covered with? What killed Cleopatra? And how about the perjoratives: "mean as a snake" and "speaks with forked tongue"? In the second Harry Potter book, an enormous snake kills a girl - in the ladies' room, no less. Who can forget the killer cobras in "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"?
Heck, even Indiana Jones was terrified of snakes.
So I'm in good company. I wore a turtleneck sweater to the seminar in case someone decided to place a snake around my neck, like they did at a petting zoo in the Dominican Republic. That was 10 years ago, and my scream is still reverberating throughout the Caribbean.
Mertz handed us a survey. The first question: On a 1-to-10 scale, how do you rate your feelings about touching a snake? I circled 10 and drew an arrow to the right margin, as in "off the charts." No one else bothered filling theirs out. They were too busy cooing at their snakes. Many of them were at the center that day for a holiday party of the New England Herpetological Society, which meets monthly at the center.
Rick Roth is president of the Cape Ann Vernal Pond Team and a hard-core herper. A Gloucester carpenter, he has a "snake room" in his house with 70 snakes. By state law, he must have a permit for his venomous snakes. It is his copperhead that Mertz operated on that morning. Roth says things like "There's nothing cuter than a baby snake" and "Snakes are more afraid of you than you are of them" - with a perfectly straight face.
As the session got underway, Mertz noted that there are only two venomous species in Massachusetts: the Eastern timber rattlesnake and the copperhead. "The main thing you should know is everything that is inside of you is inside a snake," he said, looking right at me. Not true, I replied: What about fangs and venom?
His response: "Most snakes aren't venomous. And dogs are responsible for more deaths in the United States than snakes." Others in the group mumbled about "snakes getting bad raps" and Roth added that deer and bees kill more people than snakes.
Mertz then asked why I loathe snakes; he wanted, I think, to "unwrap" my fears one by one. To begin with, they're slimy. (Not so, comes the chorus.) And they bite. And they slither. They're devious and shifty, not to mention vile and disgusting.
"Two hundred people a year die from mute swans," Mertz countered. "They box you very hard with their wings."
So what? A swan isn't going to drop into my boat from a tree and bite me. It isn't going to hide under a log waiting for me to step on it. It isn't going to find its way into my garage, driveway - or mailbox. A swan won't squeeze you to death. Swans don't swallow their prey whole. And the cult film was named "Snakes on a Plane," not "Swans on a Plane."
"And besides," Mertz was saying, "only three people have ever been eaten by a snake." Eaten?
Yes, eaten. Whole. Somehow, I didn't find the "only three" part of his statement reassuring.
Robin Riener of Billerica was there with her 10-year-old daughter, Emily. And their western hognose snake, Checkers, and corn snake named Snowflake. A biologist, Riener often does live animal presentations for children, featuring snakes. As she held the mottled, 3-foot corn snake, her daughter took the opportunity to limbo beneath it.
Mertz is used to dealing with ophidiophobes of all ages. He opened an illustrated children's book, pointing out "harmless" green snakes that, he noted, looked much like the green beans on the same page. But he wasn't fooling me. I know a snake from a green bean.
"Are you afraid of shaking hands with someone who has a snake?" he asked. Hell, yes. Sitting opposite me, our knees nearly touching, he shook my hand, then pulled a baby boa out of an undershirt pocket. Thank God for chairs with wheels.
Mertz pointed out the boa's belly button and called it "one of the most endearing things about snakes." He recalled his 15-foot-long Burmese python named Monty, who lived in a file cabinet drawer. "He would come out when I was at my desk and sit in my lap," he said, with a hint of nostalgia.
Patty Malfy of Weymouth was there with her nieces Christine, 8, and Jessica, 6. Both held Blue, the baby boa, and commented on how soft it was. Across the room, 12-year-old Michael Bannon of Braintree took his rosy boa out of a sack. His mother, Cheryl Dyer, can't stand snakes but lets Michael keep eight because he takes care of them and pays for their upkeep.
Dyer did not attend the seminar but she should have. She's still freaked out by the time she opened the medicine cabinet only to find a snake wrapped around a bottle. She did the only sensible thing: slammed the door shut and screamed bloody murder.
The snake session was nearing an end, and how could I let two little kids put me to shame? I looked around for Austin, but he had made a quick exit. So I held each snake, at arm's length while the owner held its head. I tried not to look. I was doing great, until the corn snake licked me. To paraphrase our next president, that was way above my pay grade.
Dr. Mertz and his fellow "herpers" were valiant in their efforts. Am I less scared of snakes now? Let's put it this way: No.
Ophidiophobiac tries for a new perspective