12-040
My day among the reptiles
“Oh,
you are sooo cute,” the visiting Dutch herpetologist at my side cooed.
It
would have been nice if the pretty young scientist, wearing no more than a
pound of clothing, shoes included, was enamored of me. She was not.
She
was excited by an alligator snapping turtle weighing more than 200 pounds, with
a head the size of a country ham, but less alluring.
The
eyes in that head shared the color, texture and sparkle of a half-eaten
marshmallow rolled in dirt.
But
this, to a herpetologist, is sexy.
I
know, because up until the age of 15, I was one. Had six reptiles in a
five-room apartment. That was when my mother said, “You know, if the snake
thing seems like a dead end, you could always get a job.”
Rob
Carmichael, unlike me, stuck with it, and now the snake thing is his job. He’s
the founder and curator of the Wildlife Discovery Center, a zoo/animal rehab
facility on a former gentleman’s farm owned by the City of Lake Forest. He has
a handful of birds, one bobcat and probably more reptiles than either big area
zoo, where Carmichael says they’re relegated to the status of accoutrements to
habitats for warm, fuzzy mammals.
At
Carmichael’s place, mammals mostly play the role of food.
DINNER
IS SERVED
He
assigned me to feeding a couple of snakes, both with heads full of poison. The
first was a Gaboon viper, a beautiful, mostly cafe-au-lait snake with the
triangular noggin common to vipers. Gaboons are the heftiest of vipers, and
carry the biggest payload of venom.
“It
has two-inch fangs,” Carmichael said gleefully.
“We’ll
open the front of the cage, and you’ll hand her the rat on the tongs.
“If
she misses it, don’t even worry about the tongs. Step back. Right away.”
He
told me that “Gabby” was usually well-mannered and unlikely to hurl herself on
me as soon as we opened her window.
I
later read that the typical Gaboon viper is so laid-back that it doesn’t bite
anybody unless they step on its head.
Then
of course, they die.
I
stuck the defrosted rat a few inches from Gabby’s comely lips, and was ignored.
I brought it closer and closer, and remembered one of the drawbacks of working
with snakes.
They
do not come when called.
“Hit
her in the face with it,” Carmichael advised.
That
worked.
Gabby
stopped looking at me like I was an idiot, and grabbed that rat and started
chewing venom into it. To give an idea of her speed relative to mine, I’d guess
it took me 4,000 times as long to get the tongs off the rat as she did to sink
her giant front teeth into it.
GREAT
WORKPLACE
I met
Carmichael in June when I wrote a story about a regular-size snapping turtle
named Jenna who had been run over by a car, patched up, and brought to his
center at Elawa Farm to recover. This, I thought, would be a great place to
work as The Unemployee. This guy has cobras!
Monitor
lizards! Rattlesnakes!
And
he promised me I could spend a couple of morning hours on a field study a
Loyola graduate student was doing on garter snakes, finding out where they like
to hang out, and under what circumstances.
Catching
snakes.
Measuring
them.
Tagging
them.
Getting
sprayed with musk and poop by them.
Well,
three out of four isn’t bad.
Study
haul
But
in two hours, we didn’t encounter a single snake in the prairie west of the
center. Too hot.
The
young naturalist, Matt Most, told me many were probably hiding inside crayfish
burrows, in the cool earth beneath the ponds and marshes. This delighted me,
because it was the theory current in the vacant lot of my youth in 1962.
Don’t
be too impressed. We also thought that Bozo wore big shoes and blue pajamas at
home.
The
dearth of snakes to catch was not a big deal. Like fishing, a bad day of field
study beats a good day at work.
I saw
a heron, a vole, two frogs, a turtle and lots of dragonflies. And we had two
hours to talk about all kinds of things, not just science.
“It’s
in terrible shape,” Most, 25, said. “Wrigley Field has got to go down.”
Now
there’s a guy who understands habitats.
BRUSH
WITH GREATNESS
When
we got back, I heard Carmichael say to somebody, “We’re going to have Irv scrub
Bruno.” Bruno is never the name of something small, unless somebody’s having a
joke.
Bruno
turned out to be the alligator snapping turtle. Carmichael guesses he’s the
biggest one on Earth, but he doesn’t know for sure, because no one wants to try
to get Bruno on a scale.
Carmichael
handed me a floor brush and a pair of waders, and told me to get in Bruno’s tub
with him, but make sure to stay to his rear.
“If
he gets you by the arm or leg, there’s no way he’s going to let go,” Carmichael
said. “Do a lot of damage. Nothing we could do.”
“Well,
you could shoot him,” I said.
“I
would try to find another way,” he said.
“I
vote for shooting,” I said quietly, realizing I stood lower on the pecking
order than a mean-spirited turtle with a brain the size of an anchovy.
As I
went to work on his shell, I learned I was scrubbing off rust left over from
the years Bruno lived in Milwaukee, in a steel trough too small for him to get
down on all fours in. I got almost all the orange off, then sneaked out of his
hot tub without saying good-bye.
A
DAY’S WORK
I did
several other strange things at Carmichael’s request. I eviscerated a rat,
because the Great Horned Owl that was to dine on it does not like viscera. I
fed a good-sized rabbit to a 110-pound Burmese python, and tried not to think
of Easter as the squishing began.
I
gave a rat to an Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake, the most poisonous rattler
anywhere, and never saw it strike. But it did. I gave a mouse to a small
crocodile, which jumped out of the water to get it like something from a Roger
Corman movie.
I
held onto a big monitor lizard while center employee Maggie Solum trimmed her
nails, and was surprised to feel her snuggle against my face. The lizard, not
Maggie.
I
took another monitor for a walk around the premises by teasing it with an
impaled rat.
(Note:
This disproves the Food Network’s claim that everything tastes better on a
stick.)
And I
carried the nearly healed snapping turtle Jenna to her pool to cool off.
As I
was toting her with my right palm across the crack in her shell to keep it from
splitting again, she raked my fingers repeatedly with her rear claws.
I
watched the video we made of my workday, and I look like I’m running with a hot
platter with a head.
“Ow,
ow,” said I. “Ow, ow ow.”
“She
got you pretty good?” asked Carmichael. “Welcome to my world,” he said.
Maybe
Jenna didn’t like the story, I thought. But why can’t she just send a nasty
e-mail like everybody else?