Coping With Copperheads—Part 2

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.

Coping With Copperheads—Part 1

In a previous blog (“Failing Feline,” posted on 8 August) I reported that our aging cat died recently. As he was slowly wasting away, we discussed how and when to find another feline to replace him. For all of our more than three decades of life here in the woods we've had a cat, for a couple of reasons: First, I like a cat that curls up on my lap, forming itself into a warm, fuzzy ball, especially on cold winter nights. Second, a cat can be a useful control on rabbits and rodents. Our garden has been partially protected by resident cats over the years.

But to be honest, cats also have a couple of disadvantages for us. The biggest problem is their propensity to kill songbirds. We've done our best to discourage their predatory action against our feathered friends (primarily by keeping our cat indoors during the day), but we still lose half a dozen birds each year. Another problem is expense. Veterinary bills can get very pricey these days—especially if you spay or neuter the cat, or if you have the bad luck of acquiring one whose genes promote various diseases.

Then there's the issue of acclimating and training a new cat to be a good citizen in the household. That's another factor that we have little control over, when we acquire a cat. Will it be a good mouser? Will it ignore mice and go after birds? Will it care at all to curl up in my lap? Cats for us are not mere cute pets. They have a job to do—just as any member of the family does. To what extent would a new cat fulfill its duties?

As I pondered the question, I began to wonder if we really needed a cat. What if a new cat scorned all these duties? There goes a primary reason for having one. We might incur several cat-related expenses for nothing.

So, is there an alternative? It occurred to me, as I thought about it, that snakes provide many of the same services that a cat does. Snakes prey on rodents and large insects like caterpillars, as well as birds. Oh oh to that last one! Overall, it seems that snakes can offer many of the same benefits that cats do; and they come with no vet bills or commercial food to buy. Furthermore, they are a natural resident of the area. In that sense cats (as well as we humans) are an invasive species!

Hmmm... could snakes do the job (for free) that cats have done for us in the past? During our first few years here, I possessed the typical human animosity towards snakes. We humans have a deep evolutionary repulsion of snakes. The book of Genesis biases many us, by blaming the snake for our eviction from the Garden of Eden. That predilection is most likely inherited from even more distant ancestors of ours.

Furthermore, it's hard not to flinch when we humans spot a snake. They seem to be the essence of a threat. They slither. It almost makes one's skin crawl to observe that sneaky slink. And only the most foolish or brave person would dare to touch a snake! In short, an undulating serpent appears revolting.

Or so I thought, for many years. Gradually, however, I've come to accept—and even appreciate—snakes. I've never had one attempt to lure me into evil, by talking me into biting into an apple. I've never had one bite me—let alone even really threaten me. Over the years I've learned to understand where a snake might be residing, and thus not to blunder into its territory. (In a similar vein I've learned the habits of stinging wasps and bees, and how to avoid invading their space.) In many ways, life out here has been a series of lessons of how to share space with creatures that I once deemed pests and could only imagine them as foes. I may not have yet come to see them as cuddly buddies, but I can appreciate how they fulfill a role in this small ecosystem.

More on snakes next time...