So when I walked into my house on a recent evening and saw a serpent sliding across the carpet, my instincts took over. I slammed the door. I ran screaming from the house, red-faced and in the early stages of hyperventilation.
A city girl from Raleigh, I have moved into an old house on four wooded acres in Southern Pines for the summer while I work as an intern at The Pilot. When I saw the snake, I did what I do in most crisis situations: I called my parents, who were an hour away in Cary. They told me to call the police and said they were on standby to drive down with a shovel.
Back home, the Raleigh Police Department probably would have laughed if I had called them and asked for officers to come remove a reptile from my home. But the woman who answered at the Southern Pines Police Department didn’t make any jokes.
She patiently explained that, although my address is Southern Pines, I do not actually live in the town, meaning that my home is not in her department’s jurisdiction. I panicked, thinking no one was going to come to my rescue. I pictured myself commuting from Raleigh every day. I refused to go back in the house until I saw a snake come out. But the woman on the phone took my name and said she would find someone to help me.
Minutes later, Senior Patrol Officer Lewis Cheek and Officer Tina Sheppard of the Pinehurst Police Department arrived. I was relieved to see that they were carrying guns. Cheek asked me to describe the snake. From my explanation and the tears in my eyes, I am sure he pictured a giant anaconda curled up on my couch.
We opened the door. The snake was gone.
The officers searched the house. Cheek turned over couches and recliners, while Sheppard looked under the beds and in closets. They went through the bathrooms and the kitchen, checking behind every knickknack in between. I stood frozen by the door, ready to make a quick exit and trying to decide how I was going to ask one of the other interns if I could move in with her.
They even checked the doorframes, looking for an opening that might invite a slithery creature.
After a long search, Cheek handed me the phone number of a man referred to as the “Critter Getter” and told me he could find any varmint in the house. I wanted to ask the officers to stay just long enough for me to pack my things and get in my car. But I decided they had done more than enough work for me and walked them to the door.
On the way out, Sheppard noticed a small slab of rock leaning against the molding of the wall, about one foot from where I had been standing during the search. She aimed her flashlight at it and said, “His head’s poking out of there!”
I bolted into the dining room. Cheek pulled back the rock, and I covered my eyes. I heard some noises and some gasps. Finally I heard the front door open and followed the officers and the snake to the yard.
“Do you want it killed?” Cheek asked.
I wanted it shot in the head. But as Cheek chased it further from the house, he decided it was harmless and overruled my decision to execute it. He said it was a corn snake. Judging from its size, he said, it was a baby.
When the snake disappeared into the woods I wanted to hug the officers. I didn’t have to move or quit my job after all. And in my opinion, they had just saved two lives: the snake’s and mine.
All the thresholds in the house are now lined with rolled-up beach towels sprinkled with “Snake-A-Way.”
Sarah Snelling is a summer intern at The Pilot. She is a student at N.C. State University.
