Monsters moving in

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

The desert is encroaching our living space. Wildlife is showing up at our doorstep.

On Thursday morning, I was working just outside my office under an awning when a flash of orange in motion caught my eye.

I looked to my right and recoiled at the biggest Gila monster I had ever seen.

This venomous lizard, the size of a short-legged cat with a thicker tail, stood about 10 feet away from me. It was heading for the wooden pallet under our outdoor washing machine.

I banged on the wooden table I use as a desk, hoping to scare it away. Instead, it swiveled its head toward me, seemingly curious about what I was trying to say with my thumping. It even took a few tentative steps toward me.

Hopes dashed, I pulled my feet up onto my chair and squatted over them. I stopped tapping the table.

It looked ahead and calmly finished its stroll to the pallet, presumably to continue on to the shady location I had inadvertently set up under my office.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Gila monsters are native to the Sonoran Desert, including southern Arizona and parts of Mexico.

A wildlife sanctuary

I didn’t mean to create ideal habitat for venomous creatures when I set up the 10-by-16-foot Tuff Shed that became my home office.

A series of circumstances had led to us setting up the barn-like structure on concrete blocks surrounded by a platform of soil. The blocks kept this last-minute structure off the ground in case of floods, and the platform was added later, in part to keep any critters from getting under there.

But then a friend’s creative design for our composting toilet in the connecting structure inadvertently provided access to the cool sanctuary below.

It’s a bigger problem than it might otherwise be because we live in a loose community that’s a self-declared wildlife sanctuary. I knew that when we chose this place southwest of the City of Tucson.

So, we’re honoring the presence of wildlife. And they may be appreciating our shade-filled presence more this year, with monsoonal rains so sparse some are calling this a “non-soon” season. Even needlegrass (more accurately known as needle grama) has failed to grow this year.

Photo by Duncan Sanchez on Unsplash

Frankenstein v. Dracula

Now, Gila monsters are one thing. They’re slow moving. Think Frankenstein.

But rattlesnakes have the quickness, not to mention the fangs, of Dracula.

And the next day around sunset, I noticed my terrier Chiquita sniffing something just around the corner from where I had spotted the Gila monster. It turned out to be the tail of a rattlesnake.

I yelled and pulled Chiquita back. The tail disappeared through a small opening that led underneath the bathroom.

Now I was nervous. This was right in the path to the porch of our main living area, a 33-foot trailer that serves as our shared tiny home.

So my spouse and I started carrying the dogs anytime we took them past the porch. I set up some wooden pallets on the ground to walk on. I could not bring myself to put on heavy boots in the heat, but I did start carrying a flashlight after dark.

Things quickly came to a head.

Too close for comfort

On Saturday night, I was walking in my flip-flops toward the porch when a motion made me focus. A coiled rattlesnake lifted its head as I approached it. I was standing about two feet away. Maybe three.

Within a fraction of a second, I jumped back. A rattler can only jump about six feet, as a herpetologist friend informed me years ago. I stopped a few feet beyond the required distance and shined my light on it.

“Snake!” I yelled to my spouse, Bob.

While I was expressing gratitude that our two terriers were safely inside, he retrieved the snake-catching device we keep on our porch.

Maybe the snake was sluggish. Perhaps it hadn’t collected enough heat in the patch of gravel where it was coiled. Or maybe it had gotten used to hearing our voices as it went about its day, and was trying to figure out if our new behavior was worrisome.

For whatever reason, instead of going under the bathroom, it retreated only to the first wooden pallet. From there, it flicked its tongue at us.

The snake was a couple inches in diameter and about two feet long. Perhaps it was a teenager. But they say young rattlers can be the worst because they don’t yet know how to control their venom.

Photo by Michael Jerrard on Unsplash

We talked about what to do. My job became getting a bucket to put it in, as well as retrieving jackets, leather work gloves, and closed-toed shoes. Bob kept his eye on the snake, armed with the extendable snake-catching device.

Bob deftly inched the long-distance claws of the snake stick toward the rattler, first using it to pry off a broken piece of wood from the pallet. This way, he could have a clear shot at retrieving the snake without hurting it.

Again, whether out of sluggishness or comfort with our presence, the snake stayed put. Bob managed to get the clamping device around its midsection. He gently lifted it and placed it into the bucket I held with gloved hands.

Success!

A welcome get-away

We drove a mile or so down our dirt road, out where nobody lived. I picked out a nice spot, between two mesquite trees. We placed the bucket onto its side and carefully eased off the lid, just enough so the snake could push its way out.

Our little teen gracefully rippled off into the desert, curling up into a grassy clump near one of the trees.

I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing we could now let the dogs out more safely, at least during the day.

Relaxing too soon

Then last night, Bob encountered a bigger snake slightly further out, near our fire pit. It reared its head and rattled just as he was stepping into that six-foot radius of danger.

We basically went through the same motions again.

And we still have to watch out for that Gila monster.

With all that, I’d still rather be dealing with venomous critters in Arizona than unwarranted attacks by brutal masked men claiming to be ICE. Reportedly, they are now poised to strike my hometown of Chicago.

At least here in the desert, the monsters are just trying to mind their own business.

Photo by Rasmus Ødegaard on Unsplash