Rattlesnake Hunt

by Ben Small

You’re at the buzzer on Family Feud. The question is, “Things you’ll find in the Arizona desert?”

Push the button.

"Ccactus” or “rattlesnakes?, one or the other.” You choose. You got a 50-50 shot.

So why have I heard so much about Arizona rattlesnakes, yet not actually spotted one? I've lived in Tucson two years, and I've yet to have a snake-event...of any kind. You’d think by now I’d have a snake farm, maybe snatch a grant to research reptilian weapon potential.

Nada. Nope. None. Not a single snake.

Every year more people are killed by rattlesnakes in the Tucson area than anywhere else in the world. The green Mohave is the most deadly. Bad mojo. It’s aggressive, and its venom is especially toxic. A buddy was biking in a wash and stood his Trek on its fender when he saw a Mohave slither out from behind its bushy cover, ready to greet him. He dove off his ride and was stuck for two hours while the snake used his bike as base camp.

Another friend was hiking and came over a hill in the late afternoon sun. Blinded, she covered her eyes and started down the trail. Rattles. All around her.

Hitchcock should be so scary.

The baby rattlers are the worst. The larger ones know they can’t eat you, so they modulate their venom, just give you enough, supposedly, to scare you away. But the young’uns don’t know any better; they’ll load you up. Same venom, just lots more of it. My landscaper’s friend was nailed by a wee one. It stabbed him as he fished in his tool chest for an Allen wrench. He almost didn’t make it.

Yes, we’re told if one makes enough foot-traffic noise, snakes will move away. But my wife found one in our driveway, a western diamondback, and it was in no hurry to leave. All stretched out, the snake seemed to be enjoying itself, not moving at all. But it separated my wife from the mailbox. At first she thought the snake was dead; it didn’t move at all. But she shuffled her feet, and the snake swung its head.

And tongued her.

You don’t do that to my wife. Not unless you’re carrying chocolate, flowers and jewelry.

Normally, my spouse would have practiced her backswing with the machete, and we’d be having sautéed snake-bites for appetizers, but that day she’d been swimming and hadn’t re-Spartanized yet.

So she pelted the snake with rocks, stomped her feet and yelled. She’s good at that, too.

No rattle, no coiling. The snake just slow-slithered away.

So my wife came inside and alerted me, knowing I’m hot to trot to catch me some rattlers. I wanna play some games with my neighbors.

I mall-ninja-ed up, complete with plated click-and-stick Molle-type vest, tacti-cool cargo pants, parachute cord, personal hydration system, safety glasses, high steel-toed boots, tactical gloves, helmet, knee-pads, a taser, pepper spray, and a six-foot long aluminum pole with a steel squeeze-handle on one end and steel spring-loaded jaws on the other. “Snake-Stick” or something like that. American-made, by Aazel Corporation. Good for long distance snake grabs, plus I’ve found it useful on my bicycle. Neighbor-grabbing, if you get my drift.

Dressed for action, I tip-toed out to the far end of the driveway and then into the desert, looking for slither-signs, round corners in the Etch-a-Sketch Sonoran scape.

I wasn’t as quiet as I’d have liked to be. Some clanking, a bit of pinging, the rub of leather, as my pouches, plates, buckles and slings swung with my step.

Sixty pounds of gear. You try being stealthy.

A promising creosote bush caught my eye, and I heard rattling, although in truth it might have been me. Anyway, I got down on my knees and peered through the evergreen blur. Then, I moved forward, crawling. Kept my head down, used my helmet to brush aside branches and green.

Heard what might be a rattle. I stayed stock still. Moved only my eyeballs. Caught some motion underneath my chin, and I panicked, threw up in my mouth and then had to swallow. Sudden movement might trigger a strike. My jugular was exposed. A bite there, and I wouldn’t make it back to the house.

Imagine my fear.

My eyes focused, and I saw sweat dripping off my chin strap. The drops fell on dried mesquite seed pods, which turned and rustled in the desert detritus. The temperature was a hundred-five, I was scared and wearing sixty pounds of mall-ninja gear. Sweat. Who’d’ve thought?

I exhaled, and smelled my lunch. I found my hydration tube and sucked in stale two-year-old water.

That’s when I felt it. Combustion in my legs. A searing heat. Starting at my shins and moving upward. Stinging, like a bee plague. Burning, like my limbs were on fire. The conflagration pulsed forward.

Flame touched my loins, and I was up and running. Knees high, boots pounding, my arms pumping, I must have sounded like a pan vendor jumping rope. But I was oblivious, too busy screaming and slapping at my body as I hurtled down the driveway.

I stormed through the back gate, straight to the pool. I dove in... and almost drowned.

All that gear, you know. Good thing my wife’s a strong swimmer. Better yet, my life insurance premium was overdue.

Fire ants.

When I get out of the hospital, I’m going to Cabela’s for fire ant gear.

Dang Wabbit

by Ben Small

Cottontails are eating my yard.

They have no shame. I spend half a day planting agave and other cool desert plants that won't impale me on spines, and then I sit in the Jacuzzi and watch as rabbits crawl under or around the ocotillo fencing and munch on my servings. What's the attraction? These aren't tequila-producing agaves. Have you eaten an agave leaf?

Yuk.

But there the ear-heads are, chewing on agave stalks, laughing at me, bouncing while they throw out Wayne-Newton-Dancing-With-the-Stars-like finger thrusts. Yes, and I get bunny-mooned, too. Bad enough staring at any animal's fanny. But when it's a twitchy swaying big cotton ball...well...there's a humiliation factor.

I've tried to get rid of these pests. I've put up chicken wire, but that only seems to trap really ugly lizards that are too dumb to realize that if they'd just back up, they'd be free.

Do lizards have only one gear?

And of course a stuck lizard is not a good thing. My wife starts screaming, and my manly duties are called upon. But how do I untangle Baby Godzilla without touching it and when BG only wants to go forward or to bite me? I can't kill the thing; my wife thinks they're cute. She's got a machete.

Dang wabbits.

Don't think I haven't thought about murdering me some wabbit-meat. But, as I said, my wife carries a machete. After what she did to the pool guy, I thought she'd be delighted to practice her slice-'em-and-dice-'em skills on something other than people. But she thinks rabbits are cute, too.

She told me so.

"You so much as split a bunny-hair," she said, her tone steely, her fingers sliding to the tang of her lacquered leather scabbard, "I'll split your underwear two feet up."

I elected not to push the point. Not then anyway. Gotta plan...

How do I catch a rabbit?

I researched this. Googling "Herd of rabbits" turned up 695,000 links.

A lotta people don't like rabbits.

Somebody actually analyzed rabbit body language and wrote a paper on it? Talk about having too much time on one's hands. Or was this a Washington pork project?

Anyway, I learned something about rabbit-body language:

"* Sniffing — May be annoyed or just talking to you
* Grunts — Usually angry, watch out or you could get bit!
* Shrill scream — Hurt or dying
* Circling your feet — Usually indicates sexual behavior. He/She's in love.
* Bunny hop/dance — A sign of pure joy & happiness!
* Begging — Rabbits are worse than dogs about begging, especially for sweets.
* Stomping — He's frightened, mad or trying to tell you that there's danger (in his opinion).
* Teeth Grinding — Indicates contentment, like a cats purr. Loud grinding can indicate pain."

So if I throw out cookies while my wife is at the grocery store, I can sit back, drop my pellet gun's bi-pod, dial in Gamo's Varmint Hunter optic setup to twenty-five yards, and pick 'em off one at a time with my steel-tipped Savage pellets.

Good stuff this research.

Maybe I'll get a directional mike and amplifier. Tune in to the sniffing, grunts and stomping, record the shrill scream after a pulled trigger.

Yeah, I smell a research project of my own. Wonder if I can get it funded?

Okay, you're shocked. But what other choice do I have? Poison? Then bobcats, coyotes and vultures die, too. Can't have that; I'm hating rabbits here. Trap and release? Gitmo-wabbit? Do you know how these things multiply? Plus, I gotta feed 'em. The little fuzzballs eat constantly. And what if one starves? I become PETA's poster-boy; they'll come at me with automatic weapons. A friend said my pool lured the rabbits, that I enticed them, and they decided to eat while they were here. She suggested I put kibble out, along with a tub of water and a solar recycling pump.

Yeah, sure, build 'em a spa. That'll keep 'em away.

Duck, Bugs. BooYah.

A shotgun would be fun. But shotguns are loud, and we've got an ordinance against gunfire, an HOA prohibition, too. That's why my wife carries a machete.

Can't deny a woman her jewelry.

A shotgun is too Elmer Fuddish. I'm Republican, but not a Fuddite. I prefer stealth. A pellet gun is legal. No powder, no fire; no g-u-n-f-i-r-e. Rule not applicable. And frankly, I'd rather not have cops around while I'm still stalking my neighbor, especially not with our former pool guy rotting in a hole next to my neighbor's driveway.

So Gamo it may be. The only one doing the bunny-hop around here may be me.

Pfut.

And look out Wayne Newton. You should see my finger thrusts.