Don’t Sit Under My Apple Tree

I found another rattlesnake curled up under my apple tree, but before I could react it was gone. Perhaps it misunderstood my intentions.

I grant you that a week ago I would have brought out my snake catcher, looped it around its neck and then chopped off its ugly head, but not now.

That was the Old Me, the snarling ex-Marine with a bayonet in his teeth who dined on dolphins and snail darters and would have hiked a mile through hell for a black rhino stew.

The New Me dresses in pastels, smiles incredibly wide, cuddles with grizzlies and counts the king cobras of Abu Rawash among his dearest pen pals.

This Me, the Sweetheart of the Santa Monicas, would have invited the snake in, chatted with him about, oh, snaky things, shared a pot of chamomile tea and a live rat then sent him on his way with a smile and a wave.

The metamorphosis from drooling killer to singing saint has occurred in just a fortnight.

It began when I publicly announced that I had dealt with a rattler in my yard by, well, disconnecting its head from its slimy little body.

This resulted in an outpouring of rage from those who (dim the lights, cue the hymns) love All Living Things, even though the Living Things might up and eat a dog or try to eat a kid, as two Living Things did recently.

Notwithstanding the errors of judgment by those Living Things, however, I learned from my critics that what I did was evil, and I share their thoughts with you today as an act of contrition.

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Let me say first that I hadn’t realized there were so many snake lovers in L.A. My killer column apparently had the startling effect of a lion among the elands, scattering the poor dears in terror or, in this case, anger.

I heard from herpophiles via e-mail, regular mail and telephone to such an extent that I felt a second column on the subject quite appropriate regarding those who seethed, hissed and foamed at the mouth in bug-eyed reproach.

The response exceeded the reaction I receive from most columns, including those with a cry to conscience on behalf of the abused, the dispossessed, the forgotten and the hungry.

When I write about children so horribly mistreated that we all ought to rise up as one in roaring protest against a violation of the innocents, I hear a few distant sobs, but mostly I perceive a nod, a shrug and a yawn.

When I describe the blood that flows on the street corners and spatters the graffitied walls of gangland I hear no cry to save those who have transgressed, but only an angry send-the-sons-of-bitches-back-to-where-they-came-from.

But, hey, don’t get me wrong, I understand that it’s easier to save a snake than to rehabilitate a gangbanger, even though the essential motives of the two might be strangely similar. They both guard their turf and survive in a manner which, while primitive, assures them that if they bite a few enemies, others will get the message and leave them alone.

The snake sits under my apple tree, the gangbanger waits at the end of a dark street. Any attempt to curry favor with either could be lethal.

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“It is evil people like you,” e-mailed one snake lover, “who give land serpents such a bad rap.” “You make me sick,” wrote another. “You’ve ruined my lunch,” said a third.

Many demanded that I move from the mountains because the rattlers were here first. I have discussed with my wife the prospect of deeding our home to the serpent under the apple tree but she doesn’t share my newfound considerations and rejected the idea as a product of too many hours staring at a computer screen.

At least three letter-writers and two telephone callers suggested in moderately venomous terms that I call Animal Control, the Sheriff’s Department or the Fire Department for help when a rattler appeared in my yard, stupid.

Given their manpower and the areas they must cover, by the time a deputy or an animal controller arrived, a snake could bite a whole neighborhood and still have time to slither off to Seattle.

We did call the Fire Department once and they came out immediately. But a fireman accustomed to dealing with rattlers took one look at the snake and said, “I’m going to have the little sucker for a hat band” and decapitated the Living Thing with a shovel. So much for that idea.

One e-mailer, a film producer, compared cutting off a snake’s head to chasing elephants across the Masai Mara and ripping out their tusks. An animal activist had me eating steaks carved from the rumps of Nepalese pandas. I would go to any length to satisfy my violent instincts.

That was the Old Me. The New Me realizes that the young children who play in my yard must learn to coexist with the diamondbacks that play in my yard and to share the space under my apple tree in a spirit of sweet generosity.

W.C. Fields, not a lover of All Living Things, nevertheless understood the value of serpents when he said: “I always keep a supply of stimulant handy in case I see a snake, which I also keep handy.”

Probably not the best reason to tolerate snakes, but at least he knew his friends. And now, thanks to all of you who dance with rattlers and swim with sharks, so do I.

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Al Martinez can be reached online at [email protected]