STANDARD TIMES (San Angelo, Texas) 09 November 08 Doing the snake dance (Rick Smith)
It's Snake Time in West Texas as rattlers have one last fling before turning in for the winter.
I've run across several at our small Runnels County farm lately. It's rarely a pleasant get-together for either of us.
In a perfect world, the encounter might go something like this:
ME: "Mr. Snake, what an unexpected pleasure. Enjoying this fine, sunny day?"
RATTLER: "Why, yes I am. Digesting a nice field rat dinner. Letting it settle a bit."
ME: "I don't want to disturb your digestion. Mind if I step across you?"
RATTLER: "Goodness no! I am sprawled out a bit, blocking the path, aren't I? Please pardon my rudeness and pass by unmolested."
ME: "You won't bite me?"
RATTLER: "Not if you don't slice at me with that chopping hoe."
ME: "Ha ha."
RATTLER: "Ha, ha, ha."
ME: "Good day, then, sir."
RATTLER: "Same to you, sir."
Here's what really happens:
I make a screeching sound. Then say something I wouldn't want to be recorded as my last words on Earth.
(My friend Matt has an all-purpose exclamation he uses for everything from surprise to anger: "Sweet Marie!" Mine's not so sweet.)
Then I do a little involuntary dance, leaping backward, hopping from one foot to another, as if I've stepped on something painfully hot.
My last encounter took place a couple of weeks ago on a trail between the middle pasture fence line and Spur Creek.
The snake (a huge monster who looked - to me - at least 6 feet long) undulated silently across the trail, steaming ahead casually and unconcerned, like a battleship on maneuvers.
As quickly as it appeared, it vanished into a dense thicket of mesquite and cactus. The whole show lasted about six seconds.
As it disappeared, the snake flicked its rattlers at me. Clearly some sort of insult.
Sweet Marie!
It's not that I don't expect to see snakes. I know they're out there.
I practice safe snake farming, wearing leather boots and knee-high "snake leggings" whenever I'm out in the weeds.
But the farm's full of surprises.
Early on, I instinctively attacked the monsters on sight, but I've never been good at killing critters. Even snakes.
My last execution took place a couple of springs ago inside the fence-enclosed vineyard.
Snakes are tougher than you might think. It took four chops.
And I'll never forget what happened next: The snake's upper half writhed, head curling around to face me.
And then, staring me right in the eye, forked tongue twitching, the diamondback hissed a mighty, final hiss: "SSSSSTTTTT!"
Which, come to think of it, is basically what I say when I'm really scared, mad or injured.
Sweet Marie!
I haven't killed another snake since.
Now, when I see rattlers near the vineyard, I give half-hearted chase.
But when they're in the "wild part" of the farm - out along the creek or up on the hill - I simply steer clear and walk away.
After screeching, of course. And cursing. And doing the dance.
Doing the snake dance

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