I’ve always loved snakes, and currently, I have two that are near and dear to my heart. But before them, I had an older corn snake named Lucifer. He was, to put it lightly, a little menace. I rescued him not knowing much about his history except that he was stunted in growth and had a personality meaner than snot. He’d rattle his tiny tail like a warning bell if I so much as glanced at him for too long. But despite his crankiness, he loved people-watching and would peek out whenever someone entered the room.
Our relationship? Mutual understanding: I was the rat fairy who brought him food, and he, in return, tolerated me cleaning his tank—albeit with a few nips as his “thanks.” Some snakes are just like that, and honestly, I respected it. He didn’t have to like me, and I was fine with that. Lucifer lived up to his name in every possible way.
One day, my husband invited a small group of coworkers over for dinner. Among them was a younger woman who radiated “pick me” energy and made sure to let everyone know that all animals just loved her. According to her, the only reason Lucifer was so grouchy was because I was doing something wrong.
To prove a point, I opened Luci’s tank while she watched. Right on cue, he launched himself like a scaly missile, fangs ready, as I calmly cleaned his water bowl. She didn’t say a word, and I assumed the matter was settled.
A few hours later, after dinner, she excused herself without much explanation. I thought she was heading to the bathroom—until she came sprinting down the stairs, bawling and holding her hand. On her palm were two faint crescent-shaped marks. Luci had bitten her.
Now, for context, his bites barely even drew blood. The surprise of being struck was the real kicker because his tiny teeth didn’t pack much of a punch. But there she was, crying as if she’d been mauled by a lion. While my husband cleaned her hand and gently scolded her for messing with the snake, I couldn’t help but ask: What did you think was going to happen?
Did she really believe she could waltz into his tank and coax him into a group hug? Lucifer wasn’t some misunderstood softie waiting for his moment to shine. He thrived on rage, powered solely by hateful little thoughts and a perpetual state of “pissed.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. She’d snuck into his room to prove she was a superior snake whisperer—against a shoelace of pure spite that had been my begrudging roommate for years.
Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t attended any company events since.
Lucifer has passed on, but his ashes now sit in a windowsill overlooking the mountains. Sometimes, when I pass the stairs and catch sight of his urn, I feel like I trip over nothing—like his spirit is still there, giving me one last grumpy nudge. And when the tree outside rattles against the glass, it sounds just like his angry little tail, reminding me of my favorite scaly hellion.
