An intrusion on perfection

When Brad and I moved into our house, we knew we had found our perfect home.

At the front of the house is a well-maintained city street. On that street, we can get to wherever we want to go in McCook in just five minutes. In the winter, when white snow blankets the earth, our street is one of the first to be cleaned, since the city shop sits about two blocks from our front step.

Our closest neighbors, the Lebsacks, live two houses down from us. These wonderful people are always willing to share a wave, a word of greeting, and in the growing season, the fruit of their beautifully maintained garden.

While our yard could certainly use the blessing of a green thumb (mine has yet to turn), it is still a large area where the dogs can roam, check for rabbits and -- for the most part -- keep themselves out of trouble.

Just a short distance away -- through the kitchen and living room, down the stairs and out the patio door -- lies a whole different world. As you walk out the door, your eyes fall on the Republican River bottom. During the spring the sound of lowing cattle rises up from the lush, emerald green pasture that separates us from the river.

On a spring evening, as the sun sets, we can hear the melodious chorus of frogs, crickets and an occasional songbird as we sit under the umbrella of the tall cottonwoods which decorate our large back yard.

In the summer, locusts join in the chorus, and later in the year, when the marshy pasture fills with water, Canada geese have been heard to try their voices.

For three years I knew there could be nothing more perfect. Oh sure, we've had to put up with a few unwelcome visitors. Living this close to an open field, it's not uncommon for mice to come into the house searching for warmth, a fresh meal and a chance to raise their family.

I'm not particularly fond of mice --or rats or guinea pigs or anything furry that fits in the palm of my hand. Don't get me wrong, I'm no chair-jumper, mice just kind of give me the willies. Even worse than mice are reptiles. I'd rather have a hundred mice crawling around me than an encounter with anything without hair and a belly that doesn't reach more than an inch off the ground.

With that in mind, you can imagine my surprise one afternoon last week when I walked downstairs to my bedroom to change my clothes.

I was in a hurry that afternoon and nearly ran down the stairs. I walked around the corner of the bar and was three-quarters of the way across the family room when I heard a sound and glanced down.

There, not a yard in front of me, was the biggest snake I have ever seen.

The thing had to have been 13-feet long with a head the size of my hand and four-inch fangs. As it drew itself up into a coil, hissing (in MY house mind you), its three-foot long tongue was only inches from my bare leg.

"Oh my gosh!" I yelled. (Actually that's not what I yelled, but I can't print that in a family newspaper.)

I stood, frozen for a minute, waiting to see if this nightmarish creature would make the first move. Thankfully it didn't.

I turned and ran, as if being chased by the devil himself. On my way up the steps, I ran over the top of Max, our golden retriever who refuses to let me go anywhere in the house alone.

"Run Max! Run!" I yelled at him. Fortunately Max was close behind as I reached the top of the stairs. His tail barely cleared the door as I slammed it shut to protect myself from the evil presence in the basement.

I Immediately jumped into the recliner, raised the foot stool and tucked my legs under me . I picked up the phone and called my husband.

"Where are you?" I demanded as soon he answered the phone. "We just went past Macklin Bay," he responded.

"You need to be home NOW," I ordered, describing my encounter with the son of Satan.

I remained where I had landed, waiting impatiently for my hero to arrive. He finally got home an hour later -- he had to put gas in the truck and wash his windshield.

He grabbed a pair of gloves and headed for the basement. I cautiously followed behind him.

We had been in the basement for about half an hour, cautiosly looking under the bed, the chairs, the pile of clothes waiting to be washed in the laundry room ... "I don't see any snake, Gloria," he said. "What have you been smoking?"

I wasn't about to admit it at the time, but I too, was beginning to think I had been hallucinating. Instead I went on the defensive. "I know a (blankety blank) snake when I see one," I told him.

I finally convinced him to look under the stairway in the bathroom. With flashlight in hand he headed in that direction. It took him only a couple of minutes to spot my monster snake suspended about four feet off the ground between the wall and the main stairwell support.

I had garnered enough courage to walk into the bathroom to watch the battle -- the evil, slimy, slithery creature against the brave, handsome knight in shining armor.

Then the knight asked me to hold the flashlight. I mustered up even more courage and took the light in hand while Brad unseated the creature from its nest.

The flashlight fell to the floor at the same time as the snake and once again I was ready to flee to the safety of the upstairs.

Instead, I looked at the snake. Somehow -- probably with its evil magical powers -- it had turned itself from a 13-foot snake with a head the size of my hand, fangs four-inches long and a three-foot long tongue into a four-foot long snake with a head the size of my index finger, fangs nearly as long as my fingernail clippings and a tongue the size of a thumb tack.

"Where's its Daddy?" I asked. Ignoring the concern in my voice, my brave knight scooted the snake along the floor and out the patio door.

"Kill it!" I kept telling him as he scooted it along.

"I'm not going to kill it, Gloria," he explained patiently. "Haven't you noticed, we've had a lot fewer mice this fall?"