So, might we find a way
to allow and encourage snakes to assume the duties we once assigned
to cats? If we had no cat, I believe resident snakes would be
thankful, because cats perceive snakes to be an enemy. I've watched
our cats harass a snake and even kill baby snakes. This animosity
makes some sense, given that cats and snakes prey upon many of the
same critters. They are in competition and the natural instinct is to
eliminate your rival.
Most of our snakes are
harmless to humans. We have black racers, milk snakes, ring snakes,
garter snakes, etc. But there is one species that puts fear into the
hearts of humans in these parts: the copperhead. It's
poisonous. It's venom is potent. Most of our neighbors who've lived
here all their lives regard copperheads as “nasty,” and will
quickly kill one with no remorse at all. I have seen a few of them
around here over the years, and have quickly retreated, when I spot
one. They can be aggressive and appear very threatening. They know
that they possess a potent weapon.
So, if we choose to forgo
getting another cat, while hoping that snakes will do the job we need
done, what do we do about those copperheads? Is it ethical to
encourage the presence of black snakes, while attempting to eradicate
a copperhead? Can we learn to cope with copperheads?
In an attempt to answer
some of these questions, I once again turned to the vast resources of
the internet. The copperhead's scientific name is Agkistrodon
contortrix. It is a pit viper (like its more formidable cousin
the rattlesnake), which means that it has two heat-sensing pits
located between its eyes and its nostrils. I love its alternative
names: chunkhead, dry-land moccasin, highland moccasin, pilot snake,
red snake, and death adder. (Yikes to that last one!) They inhabit
rock outcroppings, wood piles, and compost piles. That last place is
where I consistently see one. When I go to turn the compost piles and
throw back the tarp covering them, I very often bring to the light of
day a copperhead sitting imperiously atop the pile, disturbed that I
have blown its cover, and daring me to advance. I then proceed to
delicately shoo it away, to let me continue my work.
Copperheads are one of
the few snake species that give birth (in late summer) to live
babies, rather than deposit eggs that later hatch. The mother
incubates the eggs inside her body and then releases up to 14
squiggly babies—each one some 8-10 inches (20-25 cm) long. They are
mostly nocturnal—preferring to lay around during the day and hunt
at night. That helps to make encounters rare, as we humans tend to be
active in the day and lay around at night.
Unlike rattlesnakes,
copperhead bites are typically not fatal. In fact, the bigger
problem, if you get bit, is that their venom can cause local tissue
destruction, where secondary infection can set in. The greatest
number of snake bites in the US is from copperheads. That said, one
of these snakes would prefer to escape, when it encounters a human.
It is only when they feel cornered that they will strike out. So
there's no need for me to regard a copperhead as a perennial
enemy—only if I blunder upon one, unmindfully. And mindfulness is
an attribute that I have learned goes a long way toward making one's
life in the woods safer and more enjoyable.
So,
if copperhead snakes behave themselves—or, rather, if we stay
mindful and don't stumble heedlessly into their habitat—and we can
encourage other harmless snakes to proliferate, will our serpent
friends fulfill the function of our past cats? The serpents come at no
financial cost, are natural inhabitants around here, and already may
be in balance with other critters. Time will tell. We will hold off
on acquiring another cat and see how this experiment plays out. Maybe
I could even learn to welcome a snake cuddling up on my lap.
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