New Yorkers, Alligators and the Good Lord’s Karma
--March 24, 2023 by Stephen Harris
It was in the news the other day that the city of New York was having an alligator problem. It seemed one of our northern brethren, probably a guy in short pants wearing black nylon socks and sandals, decided his pet alligator, which he’d likely purchased in Florida, was too big for his home. The reptile was disposed of in one of the ponds in Central Park.
Well, nature took its course, and soon the monster was a whopping two feet long. He began to terrorize people, and soon a call was placed for an alligator trapper from Miami. It was quite a picture of the good old boy holding the TWO-FOOT ALLIGATOR. The smirk on the man’s face said it all. I could see the thought balloon above his head saying, “I can’t believe they paid me good money to come and do this. I wonder why someone didn’t just shoot it.”
That commonsense thought would be laced with dangerous consequences for our northern brethren. There would be lawsuits from the animal rights people drawing press coverage from every major network. (Ever wonder how those professional protest people get paid?) That’s not counting the thousands of complaining phone calls from people who have never even been bitten by a horsefly.
In most small southern towns, a two-foot alligator would be no cause for concern. The danger would be from every alpha male flocking to the pond in hopes of becoming locally famous for capturing the pre-historic creature. I can see the scene vividly in my mind of countless four-wheel drive trucks sliding sideways, tires screaming in protest, into the parking lot.
“There he goes Joe,” one would holler loudly while jumping from his truck, “I’ll lasso him.”
“No,” another guy and his buddy would protest, “We got here first.” Course we all know how this will turn out. The third guy on the scene would be first in the water while the others fought over squatter’s rights.
And at the end of this Marlin Perkins quest, after the local deputy decides the black eyes and fat lips all members inflicted on one another is punishment enough, another decision must be made.
“Now that you’ve caught the gator,” he’ll ask the grinning, victorious fellow, “What are you planning to do with it?”
“Just thought I’d keep…”
“No, you’re not!” the lucky fellow’s wife would scream while elbowing through the crowd. “Just where do you think you’ll keep it?”
Oh, there is nothing like the shrill tone of a woman’s voice to ruin a fellow’s plan.
This also makes me think of another encounter I once had with a neighbor who put sugar on his grits. Bless his heart. We always have to say that in the South to make an excuse for people before talking bad about them. It’s something our mothers taught us to work around, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all!”
While I was spending a lazy afternoon sitting under an oak tree with one of my sons-in-law, he spotted a black greasy looking cotton mouth moccasin easing down the shoreline of the lake. Now from the time every child in the South is four years old, he or she knows that everything outside of a screen door can either stick, bite, sting, or cause rashes that will swell your eyes shut. We are also well versed from our Bible on what
happened in the Garden of Eden when the first humans messed with a snake. So, it’s ingrained in us all to grab a long limb, hoe, shotgun, or some other kind of weapon and send Mr. No-Shoulders to where he belongs.
This day only my .45s were ready to go. The warmth of spring had just begun, and my normal shotgun kept loaded for such emergencies, was still in the gun cabinet.
As Mr. Wants to Turn My Leg into A Pin Cushion slithered out from under my pier, both of us cut loose. Now, to be honest, one of the first two shots killed him, but what the heck, eighteen rounds made sure this tool of Satan would never bite anyone.
The gun smoke cleared, and as the two of us were congratulating each other on our fine marksmanship, my new neighbor stomped over.
“Were you two shooting those guns,” he asked, looking slightly down his long nose. Choosing not to answer the question in Southern smarty ease, I said, “What makes you ask?”
That was when he noticed the mangled reptile riddled with hollow point rounds floating in the shallow water.
“Why did you kill that snake?” Before I could answer, he continued, “I just don’t understand,” he said, frowning, shaking his head, and using a tone of self-intelligence, “They have a purpose in the environment.” Sometimes it’s just best to let people think what they may and leave it up to God. Cause HE does have a wonderful sense of humor.
Not a week later, my neighbor and his wife awoke to find one of our snake’s kinfolks taking a leisurely nap on the warm carpet of their living room. And it was my great pleasure to go to their home and dispatch that lovely creature of such environmental importance to the gates of Hell. And I feel sure God was smiling.
Stephen’s first book is a novel, “Where the Cotton Once Grew.”
--March 24, 2023 by Stephen Harris
It was in the news the other day that the city of New York was having an alligator problem. It seemed one of our northern brethren, probably a guy in short pants wearing black nylon socks and sandals, decided his pet alligator, which he’d likely purchased in Florida, was too big for his home. The reptile was disposed of in one of the ponds in Central Park.
Well, nature took its course, and soon the monster was a whopping two feet long. He began to terrorize people, and soon a call was placed for an alligator trapper from Miami. It was quite a picture of the good old boy holding the TWO-FOOT ALLIGATOR. The smirk on the man’s face said it all. I could see the thought balloon above his head saying, “I can’t believe they paid me good money to come and do this. I wonder why someone didn’t just shoot it.”
That commonsense thought would be laced with dangerous consequences for our northern brethren. There would be lawsuits from the animal rights people drawing press coverage from every major network. (Ever wonder how those professional protest people get paid?) That’s not counting the thousands of complaining phone calls from people who have never even been bitten by a horsefly.
In most small southern towns, a two-foot alligator would be no cause for concern. The danger would be from every alpha male flocking to the pond in hopes of becoming locally famous for capturing the pre-historic creature. I can see the scene vividly in my mind of countless four-wheel drive trucks sliding sideways, tires screaming in protest, into the parking lot.
“There he goes Joe,” one would holler loudly while jumping from his truck, “I’ll lasso him.”
“No,” another guy and his buddy would protest, “We got here first.” Course we all know how this will turn out. The third guy on the scene would be first in the water while the others fought over squatter’s rights.
And at the end of this Marlin Perkins quest, after the local deputy decides the black eyes and fat lips all members inflicted on one another is punishment enough, another decision must be made.
“Now that you’ve caught the gator,” he’ll ask the grinning, victorious fellow, “What are you planning to do with it?”
“Just thought I’d keep…”
“No, you’re not!” the lucky fellow’s wife would scream while elbowing through the crowd. “Just where do you think you’ll keep it?”
Oh, there is nothing like the shrill tone of a woman’s voice to ruin a fellow’s plan.
This also makes me think of another encounter I once had with a neighbor who put sugar on his grits. Bless his heart. We always have to say that in the South to make an excuse for people before talking bad about them. It’s something our mothers taught us to work around, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all!”
While I was spending a lazy afternoon sitting under an oak tree with one of my sons-in-law, he spotted a black greasy looking cotton mouth moccasin easing down the shoreline of the lake. Now from the time every child in the South is four years old, he or she knows that everything outside of a screen door can either stick, bite, sting, or cause rashes that will swell your eyes shut. We are also well versed from our Bible on what
happened in the Garden of Eden when the first humans messed with a snake. So, it’s ingrained in us all to grab a long limb, hoe, shotgun, or some other kind of weapon and send Mr. No-Shoulders to where he belongs.
This day only my .45s were ready to go. The warmth of spring had just begun, and my normal shotgun kept loaded for such emergencies, was still in the gun cabinet.
As Mr. Wants to Turn My Leg into A Pin Cushion slithered out from under my pier, both of us cut loose. Now, to be honest, one of the first two shots killed him, but what the heck, eighteen rounds made sure this tool of Satan would never bite anyone.
The gun smoke cleared, and as the two of us were congratulating each other on our fine marksmanship, my new neighbor stomped over.
“Were you two shooting those guns,” he asked, looking slightly down his long nose. Choosing not to answer the question in Southern smarty ease, I said, “What makes you ask?”
That was when he noticed the mangled reptile riddled with hollow point rounds floating in the shallow water.
“Why did you kill that snake?” Before I could answer, he continued, “I just don’t understand,” he said, frowning, shaking his head, and using a tone of self-intelligence, “They have a purpose in the environment.” Sometimes it’s just best to let people think what they may and leave it up to God. Cause HE does have a wonderful sense of humor.
Not a week later, my neighbor and his wife awoke to find one of our snake’s kinfolks taking a leisurely nap on the warm carpet of their living room. And it was my great pleasure to go to their home and dispatch that lovely creature of such environmental importance to the gates of Hell. And I feel sure God was smiling.
Stephen’s first book is a novel, “Where the Cotton Once Grew.”
