Bamboo Viper (Trimeresurus stejnegeri)

As the cold approached Saturday night, and the temperature dropped (I wish the correct word was ‘plummet’, but South Texas rarely gets that opportunity), Winston decided it would be a good night to hang in his crib. 

Since both laundry hampers were returned to their niche, I stooped and threw a few items of dirty clothes in a disheveled pile on the carpet.  He needs his nest when he takes his rest.

Stick was finishing off her bedtime treat, having considerably less mass than Goofy, who, having inhaled his, stood on standby close to the bed, indicating his permission to be hoisted up.

I winched Goofy up onto the bed; where he immediately set to contentedly chewing his cud on my top sheet and comforter.  I have ceased speaking to him on the subject of this persistent nighttime ritual; because, as he cannot persuade me to stop chain smoking, imbibing coffee and chewing my nails, we have reached a détente on our individually disgusting and deplorable habits.

Besides, the bed clothes are dispensable; he is not.

We have come to no such accord about his SBD’s: the infrequent gas attacks are a clear and present danger to domestic peace and tranquility.  I concede this point to him and have found that fleeing the scene until the all-clear is the nobler part of discretion.

Winston is not quite ready for night-night.  His frisky movement about the bedroom portends one of his favorite forms of devilment: he is deploying to attack a dog.

I have observed him chase Clancy out of his path of egress; I have witnessed him box Goofy’s head with a retracted-claw bat of his paw. Winston cannot wrestle the two big dogs, but the smaller dogs are fair game.  Tense and flattened under a cover—the dining table, the credenza—he patiently waits his moment.  I see that little Jypsi is his intended prey.  As she trots innocently past his concealment, Winston springs from cover and literally tackles her, throwing her to the tile and pinning her in a half-nelson with his front legs wrapped around her.  He is gracious enough to keep his claws retracted so as to not damage his victim

Jypsi’s spontaneous yike of surprise sounds the bell on this round.  She is released to continue unharmed, save her pride.  Winston pads a small victory circle around the center of match point, then bounds to the front door, looking about for his damn butler to come open it for him.

Dogs hunt for food, for fun, to pique their curiosity.  Winston hunts everything.

Back in the bedroom, Stick is focused on the shards of her treat, oblivious to the big orange tabby assuming the attack formation in the vanity.  Ears pricked and eyes bright upon his target, he leaps from his vantage straight at her.

At the last possible moment, he foresees his folly, feints to one side and dives under the bed, scattering the other two cats into disarray.  That dog and that cat have been domiciled their entire lives together.  Cat is quite aware of how, in an instant, that little three-legged bitch can transform herself into a little three-legged bitch.

The game no longer afoot, Winston squeezes though the door ajar to his closet and retires to his heap with nary a mew.

By now it must be crystal clear that my animals compose most of my life these days.  In their healing company, I see no malice, no anger, no misgivings, no loss of purpose, no doubt, no fickle change of heart, no second thoughts--all those downfalls of frail humanity.

In recent weeks I have become less and less inured of the Lottery.  I have lost interest, not because I don’t still possess the inscrutable lure of the statistically challenged.  I have lost interest because as the days pass inexorably by, my life here in this comfortable house, shared with these wonderful creatures fulfills my every need.  At last, I see that I have what I have always wanted.

When I played the lottery, I never felt ‘comfortable’ until the jackpot grew to several millions.  Never mind that a tenth of a million would pay every debt and buy enough annuity to make me stinking rich by any man’s mark;  the winning number had to shower me in a rushing glut of moolah.  Then I would be free…and happy?  Might…you know the rest of this line.

And then there were the daydreams, the universal empire building that preceded every Saturday night drawing.  Mine, I thought, were quite modest.  No Learjet for me, no Ferrari Tuscanys, no trophy women, no fawning entourage, no world travel and definitely no bling.

But the luxury weekend retreat was always foremost, after the securing of wealth behind a squad of lawyers, tax shelters and the purchase of legal anonymity.

But with my growing attachment to the animals, how was that to be?  Leaving them to the care of others to dash off to Taos was unthinkable.  OK, Dream Palace would need to be near to home—one of the lakes perhaps—or down to the coast.  Now that this mythical place was established, how would we get there?  No problem for the dogs.  They love riding with Daddy. On the few outings when all six rode shotgun, it was a tip-top barrel of fun. 

  But the cats?  (Now you’re saying to yourselves, ‘this eccentricity is beyond absurdity; it’s headed straight to insanity.’  Don’ warry!  It is all just about to fall off the edge of the earth.)  Cats hate transportation. 

As each Friday saw Daddy packing the dogs away in the Rec Vee, cats would scatter to the far corners of wherever I could not find them.  And I will (would) not leave anyone behind!  And that’s final!

Hookay, somehow we are all tooling down to Shangri-La in the Winnebago.  What happens when we get there?  There is adequate security to assure the dogs are kept safe; but the cats?  Winston lounging out by the pool for three or four days?  Kali content to share space with him?  Miss Tree not unhinged like the agoraphobic that she is?

Finally, we return to that glib assurance of safety.  In the country? By a Lake?  On the coast?  There are more than mice and squirrels and birds, oh my!  There are predators and fire ants and ticks galore.  And…there are snakes.

Snakes.

I am thoroughly versed in all snakes Texan.  I have toured the Reptile House.  I am not perhaps as confident in their handling as a herpetologist, say; but I’m not as squeamish as a girl either.

(I was going to insert an apologetic disclaimer here, but I think I’ll just wait to catch the backlash from this callused sexist remark.)

That is fine and well. The dogs don’t know a coral snake from a corn snake; and their unconcern in the heat of engagement would probably prove fatal.  I can’t keep the Brigade away from butterflies, much less a coiled rattlesnake in the lawn.  And the Cats?  Coals to Newcastle on that note.

And on that note, with a wave of the magic keyboard, this silly muse is over.

Now back to the Shew:

Trimeresurus stejnegeri.

It has a potent hemotoxin. The wound usually feels extremely painful, as if it had been branded with a hot iron, and the pain does not subside until about 24 hours after being bitten. Within a few minutes of being bitten, the surrounding flesh dies and turns black, highlighting the puncture wounds. The wound site quickly swells, and the skin and muscle become black due to necrosis. The size of the necrotic area depends on the amount of venom injected and the depth of the bite.

This concise toxilogic description of a Bamboo Viper’s venom does not go into the fatality that such a snake can cause.

I treated a dog long ago that was bitten by a rattlesnake which also carries hemotoxic venom in the sacs behind its eyes.  The dog didn’t die, but his muscle structure deteriorated throughout his torso until it was an open wound resembling raw hamburger meat. That is what necrosis looks like. The open wound was still there when he was adopted out six months after being bitten.

There were a lot of snakes in Vietnam. The common snakes were the Cobras, Malayan Pit Viper, the Bamboo Viper, and the Kraits. The Kraits and the green tree vipers were called “Two step Charlie”, meaning two steps and you drop dead. Of course this was not true. But bitten soldiers did feel the bad results within an hour.

And if they were stuck in the bush, penned next to a hot LZ, waiting for a dust-off, that hour could stretch into time served in a horrible way.

This is my story.  One morning when my new job was no longer new, the routine had become one smooth operation.  The thrill of taking my skimmers hot-dogging out in the harbor had lost most of its edge; the trips were greatly shortened to be finished as soon as possible.

Swab ‘em out, start the engines, let ‘em warm up, untie the bowline, pull the drain plug and go.  That was the smooth part of my operation.

After smoking a cigarette, the regulation amount of time to get the big outboards up to operating temperature, I stepped up to the first boat.  I remember I was half turned and talking to someone, and wasn’t watching what I was getting ready to do. 

  The Boston Whalers had a bow lip that extended over the stanchions.   I always cinched the line tight with no play, so my little flotilla would not bang into each other.  So the stanchion was concealed below the bow.

As I kept talking and looking around, I reached down to grab the nylon and felt instead something leathery to my touch.  As might be expected, I snatched my hand away and bent over, to check out what was down there.

It was a Bamboo Viper coiled tightly around the stanchion.

The species is not a big snake, usually less than 18 inches.  This one was about a foot long.  But that warning from Coronado and the phrase ‘Two Step Charlie’ came rushing back to me, as I hurried to find an implement to kill it.  The old Texas boy in me swung into action, neatly severing the head, balancing the body on the shovel’s end and deftly dropping it into the water; followed by a quick kick of my boot toe to the head.

Put back the shovel in the locker and went immediately to finish my chores.

I had some near-death experiences in Viet Nam, but none were so close and none were ever as vivid as that snapshot moment when I put my hand on that Viper.

When a claim is made to Veteran’s Affairs, the paperwork is asking ONLY if the incident was combat-related.  If my trauma may only be combat-related, why in the fuck can I not bury the memory of that snake?