I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue.”
So I set out through the thick undergrowth, visions of snakes filling my mind. All seemed fairly event-less until I had retrieved the toy (and another one that had apparently been thrown out the door at another time) and was returning to civilization. My guard was down because if nothing grabbed me on my way to the toy, why would something grab me on the way back?
As I was walking, I glanced down, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw something black and grey coiled in the grass about a 1/4 inch from my foot. I didn’t wait to see what shape it’s eyes were, or if it even had eyes. I just ran and screamed… and screamed… and screamed.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I would think that if someone heard their wife scream bloody-murder for a minute straight, they might investigate to make sure she is OK. That’s what I would think. But no one came running from the house to ask if I was OK. No one even poked his head out the door to see if I was being eaten by a mountain lion. Nothing.
I calmed myself down and got back up on the porch, which wasn’t quite civilization, but definitely better than tall grass. I tried to lean over the edge and see what I had almost stepped on. There was a suspicious dark spot that might have been it, but it wasn’t moving. So I started to feel kind of stupid… it was probably just a pile of poop (what would make a poop coil the size of a small dinner plate, I didn’t know, nor did I want to find out).
When I went back in the house everyone was sitting around, oblivious to the fact that I’d just had a near death experience! I said, “didn’t you hear me scream?” My loving husband responded by saying, “Yeah, I thought you were up at the door wanting to come in so I went and checked, but I didn’t see anything.” Seriously, do I usually stand at the door and scream like my life breath is being sucked out of me, when I want to come in the house? No. And wouldn’t you wonder, if I wasn’t screaming because I wanted the door open, why I was screaming? Apparently not.
After my heart resumed it’s normal rhythm (about half an hour later), Chris offered to go look at my snake/poop/whatever it was. I refused to go back down into the grass (obviously!), but offered to point out the spot from the safety of cement flooring. On first observation, Chris said it was awfully big to be poop and that maybe it was a dead snake. Dead snakes are much better than live ones, but I think I would still be permanently scarred from stepping on one. He ventured into the grass for a closer look. He finally concluded it was a piece of… ROPE! That’s it. A piece of rope nearly claimed my life. I so want to move to the concrete jungle. This country stuff is too much for me!