Of Mice and Kellog the Corn Snake

St. Patrick Removing Snakes from Ireland

Yesterday, Dalia learned a little about St. Patrick. We talked about the legend that St. Patrick drove all snakes out of Ireland (which is strangely hailed as a good thing, rather than ecologically disappointing). Cool story, but the reason Ireland likely has no snakes is because it was completely covered in ice ten to twelve thousand years ago. Snakes don’t do so well in the cold. Dalia was interested in the story because we have a pet snake named Kellog. He’s a corn snake. 

When I first started working at Beacon High School (the old building), one of my students showed up in my closet that passed as an office and handed me a heavy pillowcase. “My aunt says I can’t keep him anymore. I know you like animals and all. I was hoping you could take him.” 

Inside the bag was a gorgeous, orange corn snake, about four feet long. I agreed to take care of the animal and carried him in the pillowcase to each of my classes that day. I taught night school later in the afternoon and decided that I’d let Kellog out of his pillowcase and hang around my neck to warm up. He wandered over my head, around my arms as I set up the chemistry class and he eventually worked his way into the deep right hand pocket of the khakis I wore. As I was welcoming students to class, one of the more clever among them raised her hand and asked, “Mr. Essery, is that a corn snake in you pocket? Or are you just happy to see us?” 

Kellog has lived with us now for over 10 years. He is over five feet long and is likely close to 15 years old. Maybe he is older. Corn snakes can live for about 20 years in captivity. When he was younger, I fed Kellog live mice (corn snakes will only eat mice and small rats). I always felt badly about killing another animal for the sake of the one that I owned, but I always make a deal with the mouse. If it survives for two hours in Kellog’s cage, then I’ll remove it and set it free in a habitat of its choice (usually the edges of the backyard). Three mice have lived to tell the tale.

Yesterday, after the St. Patrick story, I stopped at a pet store to pick up some frozen mice. In his old age, Kellog can’t see real well and I worry that live mice will bite him and cause a prolonged infection, so I usually buy frozen mice and thaw them out for an hour or two in the edge of the sink in the bathroom. Kate is not usually pleased with this. 

This time, like the last three times I’d stopped by, the pet shop had no mice. Kellog had been without food for weeks and I was desperate to get something for him. So, I got him a live, white mouse in a cardboard box. I hid the box on the floor of the car so that the kids wouldn’t notice it. I knew that if they saw it, they’d want to keep it as a pet. While they’ve watched me feed Kellog dead mice, it is quite a different thing to watch a constrictor kill its own prey. 

Kellog the Corn Snake in the grass.

About half-way home the resourceful mouse chewed his way through the cardboard box on the floor of the car and ran over my wife’s leg. She caught him and held him up for the kids to see. 

Dalia asked what it was. “A mouse,” Kate replied.

She wanted to know where it came from. “This box,” was the answer.

But why. “It’s for Kellog,” was the response.

Wailing, gnashing of teeth followed. “Why does it have to die? It’s so cute! There’s got to be some way to save it! Dad, what are we going to do to save it?” 

I explained that if I could give Kellog a few veggies to eat, I’d gladly do that and spare the poor mouse’s life, but Kellog had to have mice, and as long as it was in our house as a pet, we had a responsibility to take care of it. For a moment I thought I’d have to get into a PETA style discussion about the insanity of owning animals in the first place, but Dalia quieted down. “It’s just so cute,” she repeated, in tears.

When we got home, Dalia seemed to have gotten over the incident. She wasn’t angry at Kellog (or at me), but she was very sad that a cute animal had to get eaten. 

This morning, Kellog was coiled on top of the log he usually hides under. I looked into his terrarium and he extended his neck, zipping his tongue at me with almost a smile on his mouth. Then he turned and took a deep drink out of his water bowl. It was as if he was thanking me (though really he was probably looking for another mouse).

It struck me then that a lot of the choices we make and morals we say we hold are not necessarily morals at all, but aesthetic values. Dalia is not at all offended when our box turtle (another rescued orphan), gulps down live worms and grubs. She feeds them to her. But as soon as a cute mouse is offered up as food to a snake, her aesthetic sense is deeply offended and she feels that something needs to be done. 

My question is, How often do I, as a parent, dictate my opinions to my children as right and true, even though they may not be “truth” at all, but merely the opinions and biases I am comfortable with? Probably more often than I know.