Cottonmouth Water Moccasin
The South has a snake like no other: the Moccasin (Agkistrodon piscivorus). It is a snake ideally suited for live oaks and swamps. Silent and aggressive; it is a mean snake. It embodies what Faulkner said about the South, which is basically it's a land with a violent heritage.

Rattlesnakes are certainly dangerous but you're going to hear an agitated rattlesnake from a good twenty feet away. Trust me on this--you will. The coral snake is deadly too but I've lived in the South all my life and I've never seen a coral snake in the wild. Besides, a coral snake isn't a pit viper, it literally has to chew on you to enter its poison. The coral snake is also small--like a poisonous worm its so small. I can't get too worked up about a little snake that's going to have to munch on me for a while before it does any damage.

However, a moccasin will sit quietly, curled up hidden, ready to strike. It gives no warning. Everywhere in the South people fear stepping on them, sitting on them, (or worse yet) having them fall from trees onto you. They're excellent climbers. Did I also mention they swim?

So in general, the Water Moccasin is a great snake for the South. Sneaky, dangerous and aggressive--like a drunk redneck with a knife.

Around my house we see moccasins from time to time. About three years ago I was in the yard when I came across a small one, less than eight inches long and still sporting some color on his tail. I'm not inclined to kill just for the sake of killing. I grabbed a shovel, scooped him up and deposited him in the wooded lot away from the house. A year later he came back.

It was early summer and my mother was visiting along with my in-laws. The garden was going strong and my wife was plumping up with my still unknown daughter. All was good. Earlier that day I had had an hour long flight in the sailplane out at the club, bouncing from thermal to thermal and getting as high as 6,000 feet, where even on a hot day the air is cool. Everything looks better from the air.

Anyway, as I'm tooling around the yard feeling that sense of serenity that comes from manicured lawns and growing vegetables, my wife comes out onto the balcony and announces, "Honey, there's a big water moccasin in the yard and Dad's getting your gun to shoot him."

Man, that's a lot to process in one sentence.

First, there's a big snake in the yard. Okay, that's happened before. Second, my father-in-law is planning to shoot him. Two problems there, actually three. First, my father-in-law is a man who doesn't hesitate, so time is limited. Second, he's apparently planning on using my 12 gauge shotgun I inherited from my grandfather and which hasn't been fired in over twenty years. Third, I only have one shell...and frankly I don't know how old that shell is; it's been sitting in my closet for some time, a silent reservist getting a little long in the tooth.

I'm processing all this down below the balcony when I see the snake. Oh baby, he is big and well-fed. He's down on the lawn and stands out against the verdant landscape like a sore thumb. As I'm watching him watch me my father-in-law comes down the stairs (with my shotgun) and walks toward the snake. He pauses near me, "You wanna to do this?"

Well, it's my house, my yard, my shotgun and my shell.

"Sure," I answer. I really don't. I gave the little guy the benefit of the doubt last time. With an audience now I can't very well shoo him off again.

I close the distance, load my one shell into the right side barrel. I'm thinking I'd really hate to wing him (a strange thought since he has no wings) and piss him off without further ammo. He's in the yard with his head sticking up. A few more steps. We're about twenty feet from each other. Now I'm trying to remember when the last time I fired this gun was. I have visions of the barrel curling up like a flower and me sitting black-faced like Elmer Fudd out on a bad hunting trip. Was it duck hunting back in the eighties? Good Lord, where does time go?

I steady myself, raise the gun, site the snake's head and gently start to squeeze the trigger. Gently, gently---and then the shot, the ringing in my ears, the smell of gunpowder and the kick. Damn, I'd forgotten how strong the kick on this gun was; it used to bruise my shoulder.

Clean shot...one headless moccasin. Okay, the terror level can now be reduced to green. I'm the big protector of my one acre kingdom, slayer of dragons and defender of the queen and the nascent little princess on her way.

Later that afternoon, I took Bubba up the road to stretch his legs. The sun set over the cypress stands and everything took on that reddish tinge. That night I felt my daughter kick inside her Mommy's tummy.

It was one of the best days of my life.

Not so good for the moccasin though.