The CB and I have spent a large part of our co-existence living on acreages on the outskirts of Brisbane. It was an idyllic existence apart from the weekends of slave-like labour maintaining the grounds, the pool, the pumps (no town water where we were) and a plethora of other activities which someone else looks after in our current location – a townhouse complex close to the city.
Living out there occasionally threw some rather interesting experiences our way, many involving wildlife. With no David Attenboroughs in attendance to alleviate these situations (or at least film them and let nature take its course) while hectoring me about my skepticism regarding imminent catastrophic, man-made climate change, I had to manage whatever the situation myself. Please read on.
It was one of those days when the knight in shining armour was required to ride to the rescue of his damsel in distress. Having just returned from the weekly pilgrimage to the Bunnings hardware warehouse (care is needed here – if you spell this word with a “wh”, spellcheck will change it to “whorehouse’), I parked my trusty steed (“Mazda the Sixth”) in its stable and proceeded to repair to man cave 3 – the shed (man caves 1 and 2 being the music room and the media room respectively).
Before I even had time to breech the battlements and swim the moat, I was confronted by said damsel, both ashen faced and trembling of limb (enough of the medieval metaphors). “Come with me” was all she said. I obediently did as I was told (after decades of indoctrination, a man knows his place).
She led me to what used to be our daughter’s bedroom, now a repository of faded memories and other junk, and pointed with a torch, for a torch she was carrying in the middle of the day (I know to not ask why), at an upturned plastic box. “There’s a snake”. “No, it’s a plastic box”. I would not normally have gotten away with such smart arsery but these were unusual times. “Under the box. You know I don’t do reptiles”. Spiders, snarling dogs, burglars – no problem. Snakes – call the SAS. But who needs the SAS when someone perfectly capable of handling a deadly, poisonous serpent of anaconda-like dimensions is around (okay, he wasn’t so I had to handle it).
Now the CB isn’t a complete gibbering mess when it comes to our silently slithering home invaders. She did have the wherewithal to lob that plastic box on it. But that’s where her participation ended and mine began.
I carefully moved the box, exposing the animal’s tail. I grabbed it with both hands, shouldered the box out of the way and threw myself onto its torso, releasing its tail and grabbing for it’s throat. Steve Irwin would have been proud. (Child Bride here – it was about a foot long, barely thicker than a shoelace and with a mouth that would struggle to bite a match stick let alone a finger or a leg. Please continue). Okay, sorry for the over-dramatization. I picked it up by its tail and removed it to the bush. End of story.