Baby Rattlesnake

I’d never seen one before, but I knew instantly what it was.

We were walking down the shady side of the mesa in the evening, following a dirt road through the trees, a scene to remind one of Pennsylvania or West Virginia if you blurred your eyes. All at once I came upon a tiny little snake, shorter than a pencil and half as thick, writhing furiously in the middle of the path. I don’t remember the markings exactly, but its skin was dark brown, its head a miniature version of the triangular adult’s, almost too large for the body. There was no mistaking that shape, but the reptile’s behavior made the match for sure. As we stood and looked down, the hyperactive youngster struck constantly in the direction of our feet. The instinctive hostility was very unlike what most snakes would exhibit, and I felt a cold chill somewhere inside. “Be careful, he means it,” I said to my wife. Few hazards advertise themselves so clearly as this, and I wasn’t about to engage in my usual snake-handling tricks.

We went on our way, and the little brown devil was gone by the time we came back. I wondered if I should have crushed it with a rock, but after all, it was just a kid, and it’s hard to go around killing the temporarily ignorant. A grownup rattlesnake might very well have stood its ground and threatened, but soon would go away (or not) without making a fuss. They know how bad they are …