On a chilly day near the end of October, wildlife is quiet. Many birds have migrated, leaving mostly just those that will stay through the winter. Some robins, sparrows, and a cardinal hop and flutter, and though jays and woodpeckers are easier to hear than see, they’re somewhere in the treetops too. I spot a couple, but hear more. Even the squirrels seem to be taking a day off. There’s acorns littered all over the path, and very little rustling in the brush.
I took my friend Charles with me to the Hathaway Preserve at Ross Run in Wabash, Indiana, as we both needed to get out of our respective houses. Ross Run is a tributary to the Wabash River, which runs just north of the 72-acre preserve. Though it is open to the public, it is not actually public land; the preserve is owned by ACRES, one of several non-profits in the region committed to protecting natural areas from development.
We took the loop trail at a mosey, as it was only a couple of miles long. Light shone gold through the beech leaves still clinging to branches overhead. The reason ACRES chose this property was obvious as we followed the creek along: Dramatic outcroppings of rock could be found throughout the area that look almost like karst topography, where caves can be found, though there are none in northern Indiana. This is instead the result of massive amounts of glacial meltwater carving channels and terraces through the rock when the Wisconsonian ice sheet retreated.
In wetter months, it is known for its waterfalls, though the water was barely a trickle this day. The creek bed instead flowed with leaves, while minnows darted in the few deeper pools left. A huge white oak gripped the top of an outcropping with roots as gray as the rock itself, its unshed leaves coloring the puddles below. Further down the trail, even older and larger, another loomed. Its presence seemed to speak in the silence.
Around the corner from the end of our hike, I caught a glimpse of movement on the edge of the trail. As quiet as the day had been, I had to look. It was a young garter snake, doing its best to slither away from whatever monster was casting such a shadow. But something didn’t look right, so I scooped it up. It had apparently been the victim of a predation attempt, but survived; the end of its tail was missing and there were gashes across its back half that had begun to close, but only just. One eye was red around the edges, too, implying that there was also head trauma. {There will be no injured animal pictures.}
The snake hissed and flattened its head in a classic garter defensive bluff then tried to escape. I admired the little dude’s will to survive, so I decided to take it to a rehabber to help it have the best chance to do so. There is calculation that has to happen here: Generally, it is best to let nature run its course. Though I love snakes and I hate to see anything suffer, nature is not so generous or kind- one animal’s death means another’s meal. Yet there was little else around, and the wounds were not so fresh to imply that I scared away the predator. Plus, since garter snakes should be starting to brumate by now- a semi-hibernative state in which they spend the winter in dens- they should not be on many late fall/ winter menus. And it pulled on my heartstrings, so there you go. I contacted the Avian and Exotic Animal Clinic, who works with licensed rehabbers to take injured or orphaned wildlife along with treating exotic pets, and arranged to bring it in.
I need to pause here, and make an important point: it is illegal to capture and keep native wildlife in Indiana without special circumstances and permits, and similar laws exist in most other states and federally. That snake, or cute chipmunk, or songbird that made you feel like a Disney princess, all have a place in the wild and need to stay there. The Eastern Box Turtle is a good example why: according to the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, collection by humans, often as pets, is one of three main reasons for their decline, along with road mortality and the ever-problematic habitat loss. Plus, in regards to the specimen rather than the species as a whole, there’s a higher risk of disease or parasites than in a captive-bred animal, and a reduced quality of life. For the garter snake in particular, social behaviors have been documented in recent studies rather than the expected solitary nature, meaning that it would be particularly unfair to keep this little guy, cute as it may be. The law does allow for transport for an injured animal, such as this case, but that is all.
I didn’t have any great place to secure the snake, but it was small and moving very little so we rinsed out my coffee cup from the morning and placed it there. We hadn’t gone far when the snake poked its head out while getting itself situated.
“Stop it, Reginald,” I said automatically, naming my pet boa constrictor who alternately wants to snuggle and to watch the world burn. No, this won’t do. I don’t want to name the critter I can’t keep, but that name is taken.
There’s a sign, by the roadside. However many miles to Swayzee. “Patrick, I mean.”
“Star?” Asked Charles, and began an obnoxious SpongeBob imitation.
“Of course not.” A van went by, apparently a short-term company rental, with a name placarded in the side window with poster board and tape. “Ferguson.”
I mentioned already that it’s late October, but let me add now for those who might somehow not know, it’s an election year. Yard signs have sprung up everywhere like fungus.
“And he’s a senator,” I added.
Charles nodded sagely, and kept an eye on the snake while I focused on the road. Once settled, it made an occasional small movement but didn’t do much; perfect for us, in order to know that it was still alive without disturbing it, and without it trying to go anywhere.
Somewhere north of Indianapolis, the little guy’s head went down. Charles tapped the cup a couple times, then shook his head at me. My heart broke a little, even though this had been a possibility from the start- as injured as it was, there had been no guarantee that the snake would survive long enough to reach a rehabber, let alone make a recovery.
We eulogized him, because I’ve always found comfort in dark humor. He was a literal snake in the grass, and still the best politician I ever saw. Never told a single lie- maybe having no powers of speech helped. Streamlined notions and flexible policies. What a guy.
We got onto 465, the highway that circles Indianapolis, right around rush hour. We had missed the vet’s open hours, but it apparently no longer mattered. Dvorak’s New World Symphony was playing, a booming masterpiece whose influence can be seen in John Williams’ Jaws Theme. As we navigated the highway’s northwest corner, the most irritating terminally backed-up section, I looked down from the imaginary orchestra that I was conducting and saw that the senator had not given up the ghost after all. Thanks to the movement of my Jeep, it appeared to be doing his best impression of a snake charmer’s cobra as it rose out of the cup, swaying back and forth, trying to make a break for it.
The attempt was thwarted, and we added the lid to stave off future tries. Soon after, I dropped off Charles and headed on home; I couldn’t drop the snake off until morning. I put it in a temporary enclosure in a quiet place far from my own snakes, and had the same conversation with my daughter that I’d been having with myself all day.
Yes, it’s adorable, not to mention a fighter, with a name and a developing heroic backstory, too. But no, we still can’t keep it. If we did, it couldn’t get the help it needs. Not to mention all of the many reasons that wild animals belong in the wild.
In the morning after she went to school, I took the snake and turned it in to the vet. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t sad to see the container returned to me, empty, though it had to happen. I was sad to learn that there would be no updates either, though I suppose I understand. It would be an unnecessary logistical burden on the rehabbers, and such a practice would encourage people to become attached when they shouldn’t.
I realize too that I’m better off without the updates. I played my part, and it is now over. I can tell myself that Senator Patrick Ferguson of the United Snakes is convalescing nicely, and even that his tail grew back, shinier than ever. Because now he is gone, back to touching hearts and winning votes. Godspeed, Senator. I wish you the best of luck on your campaign.
And though he may not be on your ballot, go out and vote anyway.
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