Page 48 of One Summer

Flicking through the binder, it becomes clear that there has been some misunderstanding.

No, there has been a shocking and wanton misrepresentation.

Forty

Realisation

I was told I would be looking after three individuals. And here, in this beach house, it would appear that there are significantly more than three individuals.

Slowly, I take the wooden stairs to the upstairs bedrooms.

The email definitely said three animals: Bull, Corn and Hog, which I admittedly thought were quite weird names, but weird names for pets are a thing now – hence Nemo – and who was I to question it?

The binder makes it very clear that there are not three pets, there are three types, and the names mentioned are not individual pet names, they are species.

Bull snakes, corn snakes and hognose snakes.

I am petsitting not for a snake owner, but for a snake breeder.

Forty-One

Racks

Upstairs, the smell of damp sawdust is so strong, it brings a tear to my eye. In the first bedroom, there’s a large rack containing deep, plastic drawers. Stuck to the outside of each plastic drawer is a label with the contents within described in clinical detail: the age of the animal, the morph and sex, along with details of any medical problems that require ongoing treatment, and the date and type of the last feed, plus the date of the last skin shed.

On the opposite side of the room, there is also a medium-sized vivarium, currently inhabited by an orange snake that looks six feet long and appears to be called Cedric, judging by the name card tacked to the wall.

Generally, I like snakes. At least, I’ve never been appalled by them in the way that other people are. Snakes move around in a nice, slithery way that my brain appreciates. They don’t skitter along with their bellies suspended in mid-air in that abhorrent, spider way. I’ve happily watched the ‘Most Beautiful’ and ‘Most Deadly’ snake videos on YouTube and felt nothing but admiration. As a child, I briefly wanted to own a snake, but my parents would never allow it because they disliked the thought of dead rodents in the freezer. Vainly, I suggested getting a slug and snail-eating snake, or an egg-eating snake, but they weren’t keen on the idea of those either, citing the cost of vivariums and the annoying faff of good reptile husbandry, so I gave up and put snakes into the ‘Things for when I’m grown up and in charge of my own life’ category, that so many of my childhood dreams were relegated to.

When I realised what the pets in the advertisement actually were, I was keen to apply for the job.

Using the calculator on my phone, and going by the labels affixed to each plastic drawer, I will be in charge of health-checking, feeding, watering and cleaning up after…

EIGHTY-SEVEN SNAKES.

I take a moment to wrap my head around that number, and try to visualise all of those snakes sitting nose-to-tail in a long line. How far would they stretch? Over the cliff, certainly, and probably quite far into the sea.

The instructions waiting for me in the binder include such memorable and underlined phrases as:

Non-venomous – but **BE AWARE THIS DOES NOT MEAN NON-BITING**.

With further encouraging details, such as:

If an individual moves into the classic S-shaped striking pose, you might want to back off until they’re calm, and try again later. If they’re still not calm, feel free to use a hook.

Most notable of all is the laminated page (presumably because of the likelihood of blood being present while perusing this document) titled, ‘Three Steps for Encouraging a Biting Snake to Let Go’ which, I note, includes the ‘credit card’ and ‘vodka’ methods; two things that have gone together in my life, but not generally with the addition of fangs.

I have – to put it mildly – bitten off more than I can chew. So much for putting my new jewellery-making skills to good use. My days are going to be spent holding lifeless rodents with tongs and waving them in front of snake snoots, to entice them to ‘strike and clamp on’, ideally without striking and clamping onto any part of me.

When I’m not feeding the snakes, I’m going to be cleaning out and refilling water bowls, scooping poop and taking the snakes out into the back garden for fifteen-minute enrichment sessions during the warmest part of the day, because many of them enjoy slithering through the grass and soaking up some vitamin D.

I have strict instructions to keep both eyes on the snakes at all times and not look at my phone for one second, because they can be happily basking without moving a muscle, and the next moment, they’re gone. A note from Frank reminds me that ‘every animal in this home is both extremely valuable and deeply loved’.

Lucky animals, I think, mournfully.

There is also a further surprise addition to the animal inventory. The owners – currently on a six-month herping expedition of southern Europe – herp apparently being short for ‘herpetological’, according to Google – have recently rescued a spur-thighed tortoise called Buttercup from an elderly Loor Islander, who’s been looking after her since the fifties. So I’ll be looking after a tortoise too, who lives outside in a shed with a heat and UV lamp, and has access to the specially fenced garden, where she keeps the weeds down. The main note for her care is:

She can graze in the garden, but make sure you don’t leave the gate open, or she’ll fall off the cliff, which would be a shame, as she could have another fifty years of life ahead of her, and we wouldn’t be able to give you a good reference.

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