I stormed through the front door, calling out to Pam in her room as I headed for my bedroom, “Gotta recycle a little rattlesnake! A baby, under a foot!”
“Mojave green or western diamondback,” I replied. “Can’t be sure yet. It was under the oil drip tray when I picked the tray up. Didn’t even see it till I went to put the tray back. Looks like it’s got a full belly, eaten a mouse.” I snagged Dad’s old single shot .410 shotgun from the corner by my bed and headed back out. It’s never cleaned, dirt being what holds the 55-year-old snake charmer firmly together. There’s always a 3-inch shell stuffed with #6 birdshot in the spout and 9 more in the cordura bandoleer duct-taped to the stock. No safety; just haul the hammer back and you’re ready to rock.
The old man’s been gone since 1997, but firearms are forever.
Also, curse the photos on this page. This happened in August of 2011, at a time when the cheap Vivitar digital camera was on its last blurry legs but we had no cash whatsoever to purchase a decent picture taker. In November of that year, our money lightened up. I bought the Canon PowerShot that rides in its case at my left hip to this day. But until then….
Okay, so that’s by way of apology in advance. The photos below are terrible, but they’re being published anyway because of the importance of the information. In other words, you’re not going blind.
What? The excellent photo at the top of the page? That was taken with the Canon, in September of 2013.
Okay, back to the story.
Whenever the portable generator needs its oil added or changed, the drip tray gets to go to work. Not for the main oil dump–which goes into an open-topped barrel known to be hazardous to the health of a stray mouse every now and then–but just to catch a drip from the funnel when I hold it over the tray to see if the crankcase is full yet. The tray could get wiped down thoroughly and stored inside the semi trailer, but hey, that’s too much like work.
So, being pretty much a redneck at heart, I just leave it atop a little hollow out back where some earlier visitor to this land once parked a car with a leaky crankcase (or some such) and left a spot of oily dirt. It never needs to be clean, so why not?
Can you tell I’m not into white-glove inspections?
Back to the baby Mojave green. These snakes are considered the deadliest rattlers in the world, packing a neurotoxic venom similar to that produced by the cobra.
Yep. The little critter was still peaceably digesting its meal, making no trouble at all, doncha know? But it still had to go. Not only does my wife have COPD–meaning that she has trouble breathing on a normal day–but after puppy-dogging me back out to the Snakelet Place, she reported a brand new problem.
She couldn’t see the snake.
“This one is way more dangerous to me,” she admitted, squinting to make out the reptile from a distance of maybe 20 feet. “I’d have been looking for something bigger. And I can’t see–oh, now I can sort of make it out. I’d have stepped right on it.”
My honey’s vision is not doing that well of late. She’s the one who spotted the 30-incher I shot earlier in the year, but that Mojave green rattlesnake was within four feet of her and moving at the time.
Okay, photo shoot done. Time to terminate. I set myself spiritually–silently, most of the time–apologizing for the necessity of the action…and fired up the disintegrating ray.
That’s no exaggeration. You’ve seen those disintegrating rays in science fiction movies, right? Well, that’s exactly what happens when a load of #6 birdshot in a tight pattern hits the head of a snake. The head literally disintegrates. Not a happy ending for the reptile, true enough, but a lot better way to go than the exit path taken by the mouse.
Having trouble picturing the disintegration?
Here, let me show you.
In the above photo, there’s a light-colored thingie toward the lower right. That’s a piece of snake stomach skin blown off by the birdshot on its way to the snake’s head. I was careful to avoid hitting the tail, identification of the species being important to us, but a bit of collateral stomach damage didn’t matter.
And it turned out to have a scientific benefit: A portion of the distended stomach was sheared away as cleanly as if done by a medical examiner’s scalpel, revealing the stomach contents to be–yep, definitely mouse, mouse fur and all.
The tail, with the white bands of the “coontail” being much wider than the black bands, provided the ID: A Mojave green, all right.
With the home security and forensics aspects covered, it was finally time to recycle. The snake-and-mouse, two-two-two-for-one meat package was hauled on a shovel blade to an open area some 100 yards or so east of the Border Fort and left for the buzzards. Not literal buzzards; it might be the ravens who snack on this one. Or the ants; they were showing great interest. Or one of the night scavengers; the desert is always clean as a whistle, come sunup.
One more note regarding the danger of these little rattlesnakes: They can’t rattle yet. Rattlesnake rattles are composed of leftover skin-bits from each time a skin is shed as the snake grows. This one had only the brownish tip in place; shaking its tail would have produced no more sound than you shaking your finger.
Babies can be cute little things, but baby Mojave green rattlesnakes have the potential to ruin your entire day.
All babies are not created equal.