When I came home last night from some Corona-thing, Marty said, "Don't look in the trash can."
Well now, though I can respect that kind of talk from my husband of 26 years, it didn't stop me from asking the very obvious question: "Why?"
"I just killed a snake and I hadn't gotten around to putting it in the outside trash just yet. I thought I had more time before you got home." And then, Marty looked at me and said these words. "It was on the back porch. I'm pretty sure it was the same one Polly found last week on the front porch."
Though I appreciate his effort to appease me, I am pretty sure it isn't the same snake. First, the snake Polly found last week was black. This now-dead one, I'm told, is tan. (Marty could not confirm it was a copperhead and I wasn't opening the trash can). Second--and this is just me--I'm pretty that snake didn't slither to the back yard just to hang out on the back porch. To be fair, I don't know what goes on in the inner workings of such a creature's mind, but perhaps this one came from the woods behind our home?
Ever proactive and terrified that I'm following through on my threat to move back to Phoenix*, Marty told me he'd already set out even more Snakeaway from the bag he'd purchased last week. He offered to buy another bag as soon as this one ran out if it would make me "feel better." It won't make me feel better. But yes, he can buy more and liberally distribute it everywhere.
*And for anyone reading this who wants to point out there are snakes in Arizona, I'm aware. When I was six, there was a rattler in my Phoenix backyard. My little brothers and I have been terrified of snakes ever since. However, since then, most snakes have been driven out of the suburbs. And, the majority of the time they are polite enough to let others know they'd like to be left alone.
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