Snake Rehab

Last night I woke up on the sofa. My cheek was stuck to the leather, the TV was blaring and my snake was gone. I did a quick scan of the room. In the light of the fish tank I was relieved to see that my cats were not here. There was no sign of a fight, no blood, no fur. I checked the time. An hour had passed. Even a mellow ball python could go far in 60 minutes.

When we got Babe, he was a newborn, just several inches long. I’d been reading books about baseball players with my kids. We’d just finished a book about Babe Ruth when we picked out our python at the pet shop. Alan, the reptile guru, probed his cloaca and pronounced him a male. Babe’s got a beautiful pattern on his smooth leathery hide. He’s just what a natural Ball looks like, the kind that slither around the African wilds. He is light brown and gray with with dark brown designs that look like the shapes inside a lava lamp. His belly is cream colored and turns a light pink right before he sheds. Babe is docile and friendly, as long as his head isn’t touched. In that situation he recoils and then tries to hide himself by curling up into a tight ball. He’s a sweetie.

When we got him he was so little he ate tiny baby rats. I’d drop the little mammal into a shoe box and then put Babe in. He didn’t like to strike when I was watching. So I’d close the lid. A few seconds later I’d hear him scuttle against the cardboard, and then a peep from the rat as Babe would squeeze around him. A couple of hours later I’d open the box and Babe would be nestled in a corner with a little bulge in his mid section. I’d feed him weekly. He was shedding and growing. By day he’d rest in a ball under his green plastic “hide”. At night, before I went to bed I’d watch him in the glow of the red heat lamp as he would “stand up” lengthwise and try to escape his tank.

When he got older and bigger I had to switch to frozen prey because rats can attack and blind a snake. Babe went on a hunger strike. I tried to switch back to live prey, but there was a shortage of supply in our community. Babe would have to adjust. Unfortunately, he didn’t. I kept finding those rats still in the feeding box the next morning. I felt bad throwing them away because it meant they’d died in vain. I tried a live mouse, and he ignored it. I read on the internet that ball pythons will sometimes go into a type of hibernation during the winter and stop eating. But Babe continued his abstinence into spring, then summer. I was worried.

The vet pointed out that Babe’s spine had become prominent. He’d lost muscle mass. I felt guilty that he was wasting away under my care. Danny, the vet, gave me a plan to stimulate Babe and his appetite. I had to soak him in warm water, everyday, to bring him out of hibernation. After a week, I was to try feeding him a live fuzzy - a tiny baby mouse, named for his burgeoning fuzzy fur. I was skeptical, but willing.

I took Babe’s rehab very seriously. Every evening I filled the bathroom sink with warm water and put Babe in. He loved it and would just relax down there, his head submerged. He’d seal off each nostril with a single tiny air bubble. After about 15 minutes of stroking and studying his hide, I carefully lifted my starving snake out of the sink and patted him dry with a hand towel. Then I’d untuck my shirt, put him against my warm belly, and tuck my shirt back in to secure him. Even after his warm bath, he still felt cool against my skin. Like a pregnant mother, I’d put my hand on my protuberance as I walked. I brought him to the den, and we’d sit together while I watched TV for an hour. He’d just snuggle there, while I let my body warm his cold blood.

At the end of the week I brought home a fuzzy for Babe. That night, when he was good and alert, I gave him his bath. I was too nervous to snuggle, so I went straight for the meal. I put Babe and his fuzzy in a clear plastic feeding box and then placed the box in his tank under the heat lamp. Babe was over 3 feet by now, and despite his emaciation, the fuzzy looked ridiculously small for him. In deference to Babe’s private eating preferences, I turned out the light and closed the door behind me. An hour later I checked back. The two of them were still there, minding their own business.

The next morning the fuzzy was gone! Babe was curled up resting in his box. I lifted him out and placed him back in his tank under his heat lamp. He slithered into his hide and disappeared. I couldn’t wait to try something a little bigger next week. Danny cautioned me to go slowly. So, despite my impatience, I kept Babe on fuzzies for a month.

Babe’s been doing great and doesn’t need his baths anymore. He eats a full grown mouse a week. He’s shed twice and has beefed up a bit. When I got ready to feed him yesterday, I decided to give him a bath, just for fun. I patted Babe dry and secured him against my belly. I brought him down to the den to watch some TV. I laid myself on the sofa and gently rearranged him, still warming him against my belly. Babe slithered his head out and brought his proximal third around my arm. We stretched out together and snuggled. I drifted off, intertwined with my cold blooded buddy.

When I awoke and saw Babe was gone, I nearly panicked. If my cats didn’t get him, he might survive to escape and be gone forever. I checked under the sofa, behind the club chair, behind the TV and the fish tank. I crawled around the den on hands and knees with my head at snake eye level. Nothing. Frantically, I pulled the pillows off the sofa, then the cushions. There he was, wedged into a crevice in the sofa frame, camouflaged against the brown leather. Relieved, I tried to retrieve him. He stiffened and wouldn’t yield. “Come on, Babe,” I begged. Then he softened and let me lift him. I carried him upstairs to his tank. I put him in the feeding box with his very cute, waiting meal. I closed the lid, closed the tank, and placed the heat lamp over the box. “Go for it, Babe,” I wished. Standing at the light switch, I turned to look once more. Right before my eyes, looking healthy and snaky, he struck at the mouse. In a flash he grabbed it and coiled himself around it. It peeped. Satisfied and proud, I turned out the light, shut the door behind me, and went down to the den to reassemble the sofa.