Police Respond to Intruder at Officer’s House

It was close to midnight in March, it was raining and had been raining most of the day. We were tired. Not only tired, but dog tired, we had just finished packing for a camping trip in the Great Smokey’s. The luggage was stacked by the door and ready to throw in the van at three a.m. with three sleeping kids.

We had just sat down and turned on CNN when I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the kitchen. It took a second for my brain to register what my eyes had seen. Surely, it wasn’t what I thought it was. My first question was how, and then why, finally what are we going to do with it, all going through my mind as I was yelling SNAKE! There was a snake in my kitchen, dropping in from my stove ventilation hood. Then the argument ensued.

“You didn’t see a snake,” he said.

“That is exactly what I saw,” standing in my chair.

“I think you’re seeing things.”

“Then go see for yourself.”

I might add at this point that we are equally afraid of snakes. I have a real problem with the fact that they move and they don’t have legs. Still standing in my chair, I watched him casually walk into the kitchen look at me and start to say he didn’t see anything, then he saw it too. Curled up on top of my stove and as he jumped in surprise, the snake pulled a disappearing act into the nice warm insulation of my oven.

Now what? Can’t go to bed, there is a snake in my house. Can’t get out of the chair, there is a snake in my house. Stalemate. Moments pass as we look at each other for suggestions. I am all for leaving the house to the snake. I can pack quickly and get out. It’s kind of like when the ghost says “get out” at the beginning of the movie. You don’t wait around, you just leave. Snake likes the house? He can have the house because now, I will forever be worried about another snake in the house. Tim wanted to move to Tennessee anyway. After my brief bout of irrationality, I suggested we pull the stove out and have one of the guys at the police department bring the snake hook over and someone could fish it out of the stove. I was immediately met with, “Think about that… no way am I telling them there is a snake in my stove.”

So, we pulled the stove out from the counter into the middle of the kitchen and only about peed myself when the cord fell in my direction. Next step? “We’re going to have to pull it apart to get to the snake.” I think I said something like, “Hell no!” The next thing I know we are gingerly touching the stove trying to take out all of the screws with Tim’s screw gun. I say again, “You need to call and get the snake hook.”
“I’d rather die,” was his response.

Both of us ready to leap at a seconds notice, remove the sides of the stove like a ticking time bomb. There he is, all curled up and rather happy to be out of the rain. I start calling him Mister at this point. Anyone who controls my life this much deserves that respect. Ah Ha! I have it, if we turn on the oven, maybe he will get too warm and come out. The oven comes on, we crank it up to 450 degrees, and Mr. Snake lets out a sigh of relief as he is finally getting warm.

We both sat on the table, pondering out next move. “We have to call, Tim.”

“We can’t call, Lisa. Do you realize what is going to happen if we call?”

“I’m not going to bed or going on vacation until I know the snake is out of the house. I’m calling.” I picked the phone up to dial.

“Give it here, I’ll do it.” as he grumbled.

After a brief discussion on the phone and a plea for discreteness, we hear the call on the scanner. “Can an officer respond to 202’s residence with the snake hook?” He looked at me and I feigned an apologetic shrug. I just wanted the snake out of my house.

By the time all was said and done, we had four squad cars, six police officers and the local media at my house. One of the Sergeants and I were standing on my kitchen table, one officer had his pepperspray out while another poked the snake, the rest were just there for moral support, at least that is what I tell my husband years later. After much poking and prodding, the snake emerged from his warm hidey hole to be met with one of my good frying pans and the flash of a camera. I almost felt sorry for him, but not as sorry as I did for my husband. This was going to stick with him for years to come, along with the newspaper story in the police report section reading, “Police respond to Intruder at Officer’s house.”

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