So, as some of you may have guessed from my username and avatar, my hubby and I are avid reptile keepers. Our most recent baby was a juvenile female bull snake. We only got her last week. She didn't even have a name yet.
This morning, when we got up, she was acting strange, gaping her jaws and writhing. We immediately scooped her up and brought her to the reptile shop down the street. The owner is a friend of ours and an expert in all things cold-blooded. I was pretty dismayed to get there and see there was a father with three kids already there, but in my distress I dismissed them pretty quickly.
It turns out the little bull snake had a badly broken jaw (it may have previously been fractured, we're not sure), and she had to be put down right there and then. I spent about twenty minutes hiding in the basement, sobbing my eyes out, before I could face going back upstairs and dealing with people.
As my husband and I are thanking the store owner for helping us and for putting our poor baby out of her misery, the smallest kid, a boy of maybe six or seven, popped up in front of me and said excitedly, "That snake? He died!"
He is so lucky I didn't whack him across the face right there. As it was, I must have looked pretty fucking scary, because the minute I turned on him his smile disappeared. "Yes," I snarled. "she died. That was
my snake, and she died." And then whirled to leave the store. As I did, I heard my husband snapping at the father, "Jesus, somebody obviously didn't teach him any manners."
At home now with alcohol and dope, slowly calming down, but every time I think about that excited grin on that fucking little bastard's face, I get angry all over again.
Thanks for giving me a place where I can vent.