Snakes Don't Miss Their Mothers
Read Snakes Don't Miss Their Mothers Online
Authors: M. E. Kerr
M. E. Kerr
This book is dedicated to all the workers and volunteers at ARF, the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons. And a salute to the animal shelters, all over the United States, that care for our critters, finding them good homes and loving families.
I also want to acknowledge a dedicated veterinarian, Dr. Ralph (Spike) Wester of Auburn, New York, and my friend since childhood, the late Laura Gwen Griswold Wester. They were married in the 1940s, and they lived happily together up in God's country, the Finger Lakes, until Laura Gwen's death in February 2003.
15 “Rex, This Is Rags, Can You Hear Me?”
21 “Where Did the Little Crumb Come From?”
25 To Dream the Impossible Dream
34 A Snake Is a Snake Is a Snake
A Personal History by M. E. Kerr
in order of appearance
MRS. SPLINTER
Director of Critters
IRVING
A twelve-year-old part-German shorthaired pointer, soap-opera devotee, and longtime Critters resident
MARSHALL
A black-and-yellow king snake who likes big words and live rats
MR. LARISSA
Faithful volunteer
PLACIDO
A one-eyed Siamese cat with a terrible secret
CATHERINE
A greyhound, rescued from the racetrack, ready to make a bet about anything
GOLDIE
A newly arrived yellow Labrador retriever, sought by Uttergore, the dogcatcher with the red gloves
DEWEY
An Irish setter who has seen better days
GINNY TINTREE
Host and volunteer to animals from Critters
FLO TINTREE
Ginny's mother, host and volunteer to animals from Critters
WALTER SPLINTER
Eleven-year-old animal lover and grandson of Critters director
NELL STAR
Host and volunteer to animals from Critters
POSH
A xoloitzcuintle, resembling a cross between a pig and a pit bull
NOEL
An iguana, left inside a Long
Island Railroad train
Is This Really Good-bye?
I
RVING LIKED TO
listen to the adoption interviews, even though in three years no one had ever asked to take him home.
Irving's cage was right around the corner in the kennel, but he could see the front desk at the entrance of Critters. And he could hear everything.
“Do you live in East Hampton, Mr. Twilight?”
“Yes, we live on a boat called
Summer Salt II.
Our first was lost to Hurricane Harriet down in Florida, last summer.”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Splinter eyed the tall man carefully. She was the guardian angel of the critters. She would never give an animal over to anyone she did not think was kind and responsible. “So you're new in town, Mr. Twilight?”
He had blond hair, a black crewneck sweater, and black Dockers. A big silver belt buckle. Black boots. A big smile.
“We're new for now, ma'am,” he said. “We came north so my daughter could dance at Radio City Music Hall. Jimmie's in the Christmas show every year. She plays Twinkle Toes. We'll stick around to see if she gets this new job she's up for. A television commercial.”
“Your daughter appears on television?” Mrs. Splinter sounded impressed, but Irving knew she probably wasn't, for her own son was a CNN newscaster.
“Jimmie hasn't been on television
yet,”
said Mr. Twilight. “Her agent arranged an appointment for her with the head of BrainPower Limited. We've always been in show business, but we're mainly circus people.”
“Oh, dear me,” said Mrs. Splinter. “I don't like the way circuses treat animals. They're so often cruel.”
“I wouldn't work for a circus that was cruel to its animals,” Mr. Twilight said. “Where I worked, we treated all our animals like family.”
“Good! But now you're leaving the circus?” Mrs. Splinter asked.
“Yes, for my daughter's sake. She needs to be with kids her own age. Regular kids. Now, with her mother gone, she needs a more normal life. I've decided to get off the road.”
“What will you do, Mr. Twilight?”
“Call me Sam. I work as a clown for children's parties. And I rent the boat out for picnics and moonlight sails. This time of year, I get gigs as Santa Claus.”
“And have you ever owned a cat, Sam?”
“No. My wife always had Siamese when she was a kid, but after we were married we got a little dog for Jimmie. A Boston terrier who could dance on his hind legs. I don't see any little dogs here.”
“There are none,” Mrs. Splinter said.
There never were little dogs in residence at Critters, not for long. Everyone wanted a cute little poodle, a terrier, a dachshund, even a bedraggled mutt, if he was small.
Irving sighed. Irving was twelve years old. He was white with great splashes of brown, and he was big. He was mostly a German shorthaired pointer, but there was a bit of English setter in him, too.
Sam Twilight said, “I couldn't bring home a dog, anyway. No dog could hold a candle to Dancer. That was our dog's name.”
Mrs. Splinter said, “How old is your daughter, Mr. Twilight?”
“She's eleven, ma'am.”
“I have a grandson who's that age. Walter. He's an animal lover, as I am ⦠Did you say your daughter's name was Jimmie?”
“Her name is spelled with an ie,” said Sam Twilight. “My wife named her Jimmie after Jimmie Spheeris. I suppose you don't know him?”
“No, I don't.”
“He was a songwriter. He was from circus people, too. So when he made it big in the Real World, my wife would make everybody listen to his songs. Then a drunk driver ran him down when he was only thirty-four. Our boat's named after one of his songs.”
“Is Jimmie an animal lover?”
“Oh, yes. Her Boston terrier went to heaven at the same time her mom did, but Jimmie has carried on like the little trouper she is. That's why I want her to have a new pet to love. Pets help heal you when you're down. And when you feel up again, they're up with you! At least that's what I think,”
“I think so too. Yes. Yes, Sam.” Mrs. Splinter's voice was soothing, a sign she was warming to this Twilight fellow, with his sad story and his optimistic-spirit. She said, “Now, you realize that the cat you picked out was declawed. His last owner had that done! He can't go outdoors. He wouldn't be able to protect himself, climb trees, scratch attackers, or any of that.”
“Fine, because he'll live aboard Summer
Salt II,
which is moored at Three Mile Harbor.”
“You'll have to keep him inside, you realize. If he ever fell overboard, he could not cling to anything without his claws.”
“We take excellent care of animals, Mrs. Splinter. Like I said, my family considers them family.”
“Well, so far so good,” said Mrs. Splinter. “Do you think Jimmie would like to see Placido before you adopt him?”
“No, ma'am. It's to be a surprise.”
Placido?
Irving's ears pricked up, and he shook away some drool from his large lips. Don't tell me Placido's going out again, he thought. That was the way they always put it at Critters when Placido was adopted: “going out.” That left room in the mind for the idea of Placido coming back. For that was what always happened when anyone took the large, one-eyed Siamese home. He went out, and then he came right back. His fake-leopard-skin carrying case was a familiar sight on the floor in the front room.
Irving doubted that Placido would last through Christmas with the man and his daughter. It was now the twenty-third of December. Lately, Placido's usual stay was twenty-four hours.
While Mrs. Splinter explained Critters' adoption rules, Irving stood up and shook himself. The vibration was just enough to awaken Marshall, as Irving had intended. It would have done little good to bark, for Marshall had no ears. He communicated by an intricate form of reptile extrasensory perception, but he had to be awake first.
Marshall's glass cage was next to the radiator, where it was warmer. Unlike any of the other cages, his had wire mesh at the top. It was an escape-proof cageânot that Marshall had any plans to slither off to the unknown.
Marshall was the only snake at Critters.
Three feet long, black with yellow crossbands, Marshall unfurled and nosed up through the wood chips. His forked tongue darted in and out. He was cranky, Irving knew, because he had just changed his outfit. Whenever he shed his old skin, he sulked for a while and even refused to eat.
“What is going on?” he asked. He was a king who often sounded royally stern and wise. He liked big words and live rats.
“Placido's being adopted,” said Irving.
“You woke me up for
that?”
Marshall was not a fan of Placido's. There was not an abundance of Placido fans at Critters, unless they were visitors who hadn't spent any time there. Placido was not easy. Word of his shenanigans down in the cat room always reached the dogs, who thanked heaven he was a feline and not allowed in with them.
“Don't you at least want to wish Placido Merry Christmas and say good-bye?” Irving was a decent sort who forgave the faults and flaws of others.
“How many times a year am I supposed to say good-bye to Placido?” Marshall asked.
“You have a point there,” said Irving. “But you've never wished him Merry Christmas.”
“Placido will be back for Christmas,” said Marshall, “so I'll save my breath.” He relaxed into a heap by his water bowl. “My family never celebrated Christmas,” he said. “We never celebrated any day. But the critters here all seem to dread Christmas. They're beginning to whine and complain more than ever.”
“We get homesick this time of year,” said Irving.
Marshall had arrived last Valentine's Day. The East Hampton police had brought him in. Some people had skipped out of a house without paying six months' rent, and Marshall had been found in the bathtub.
Now Mr. Larissa, the most faithful Critters volunteer worker, was heading down toward the cat room. He was carrying the empty fake-leopard case.
News of the adoption began to spread among the dogs.
Mr. Larissa went into the cat room, swinging the doors open with a joyful motion, pleased that a cat would get a home for the holidays. The dogs caught a brief glimpse of the felines lolling about on the thick green rug, crawling around the carpeted shelves, pawing at leftover summer flies groggily climbing up the windows.
“Wake up, Placido!” Mr. Larissa sang out. “You have a new home!”