chicken poop, snakes, and hurt feelings.

I wonder sometimes when it’s going to happen. 

  Getting bitten by a snake, of course, is the thing I wonder about.

   I have such a tendency to wear flip flops right up to the edges of creeks and ponds, poking at interesting things with sticks. I jump from the Kubota to peer closer at a turtle or large bull frog and before I SEE the snake, I HEAR the snake…that heavy, long lengthy slithery slide, the grass parting just slightly and PLOOP they are in the water. I get a glimpse of them and then they are gone.

  I killed a cottonmouth snake with a BB gun Friday morning. It had been a terrible day already and my spirit was low. Lower than a snake’s belly! I read in a children’s book once. I had dealt with pain and anger, anger and pain for days. I could scarcely bear it, the things said to me… to others, angry, mean words. Threats. Mocking words.  

  I saw the cottonmouth in the second creek on my way to the chicken houses. I was getting a late start, so it was almost 10 am. Usually I am out there earlier, but today was a bad day, so my schedule was off. The wind blew across my face, drying  the tears I had cried all morning.  It was hot already, the sun hitting my shoulders and arms.

  I keep a BB gun on the Kubota to spook dogs and wayward cattle and horses. I also shoot AT snakes but rarely actually HIT snakes.

  The snake was lying in the shallow part of the creek, sunning his body on a large rock, his head in the water.

 I stopped the Kubota. I aimed my BB gun and PING! Hit the snake right in the head. Instead of sliding away, gliding away under the water and hiding under a rock…he was still. I shot again, seeing that again I hit him right in the center of the head. He went under, rolling slowly under the water…that roll that snakes do when they are dying, their nerves still alive and twitching. . I grabbed a large stick and lifted the snake out of the water. He was dead, dead, dead.

  I was STUNNED. I lay him on the road and took a picture with my phone. I texted it to Clint with the caption “I killed a snake with my BB gun!!”. He called almost immediately and said “woman! you’re gonna get BIT one of these days, poking around creeks with a silly BB gun!”

 But he was proud of me and told me so. I hung up and headed to the chicken houses, feeling strangely lighter and better.

 I walked chickens, the air swirling with feathers and dirt. I picked up a cull and almost immediately it pooped on my leg, the goo running down into my boot. I never broke my stride. See, that stuff washes off. It’s gross and unpleasant and smells… but it won’t actually kill you.

 So on I walked. I picked up a cull that had been attacked by another chicken. I felt blood trickle down my other leg. That stuff washes off, too.

On I walked.

 I thought about my morning…about the words said to me. I thought about that dead snake.

  Oh, a tiny BB gun. Barely able to break the skin.

But…I killed a snake with it.

I killed a snake because I kept at it. I wasn’t afraid. My aim was true. I didn’t give up. Just kept shooting.

I pondered chicken poop and venomous snakes and angry words.

   I drove home after dumping the dead chickens onto the pile at the composter, the buzzards waiting. They’re always waiting. Waiting for the dead, the unliving, the unmoving, the battered and the bloody. They eyed me, tilting their heads to look at me. If we don’t cover the dead with leftover chicken litter, tomorrow I’ll drive out there and there will be bones and feathers, bits and pieces. Frankenchicken.

  I took a shower, washing off the poo and dirt and the morning. I got out of the shower, dried with a fluffy white towel. I braided my hair, plopped on my sun hat and put on my overall shorts.

  I sat down, my feet and legs feeling tired and shaky. I thought about the things said to me, from people that I loved, that once had  loved me. I prayed for them. I prayed for me. I pictured myself, a harmless child’s toy. A BB gun.

  I pictured hatred, like a poisonous snake, venomous and waiting, sunning in the water.

I looked again at the picture on my phone. I thought of Clint’s words. “Woman! You’re gonna get BIT!”.

  I thought of the people who lashed out at me. The people that…when they call and I see their number…I hesitate to answer. I never know who they are going to be. Do they?

  I thought of those people. I thought of getting snake bit. I wondered when…at what point…am I only going to be armed with a  BB gun or not armed at all and not see the snake? Will it bite me? Will it hurt?

  Clint and I were searching for a calf the other day. I had on my boots and at one point, Clint slowed the Kubota and I jumped off, going to walk toward the creek, where there were trees and shade. The perfect place to bed a calf down. I had taken a couple of steps when the snake slithered past me, 3 inches from my foot. A cottonmouth I had very nearly stepped on. I knew my boots wouldn’t have stopped an angry snake’s fangs. I turned to Clint. He had seen it and he got off the Kubota and looked, but the snake was gone.

   I don’t believe that bite would have come any more out of the blue or any more painful than what I had felt in the last few days.

  But…during church today, I realized my heart felt like I had washed it clean  and dried it with a fluffy, white towel. I washed off the gunk and goo of the last few days with tears and prayer. See, angry words are unpleasant and painful…but the won’t actually KILL you.

  And…I feel God is telling me there are creeks I must stay away from. No matter the memories or former tugs at my heart. Stay away, says God to me.

 To keep from getting bitten, of course.

And so I shall.