A First

So today while I was sitting in my graduate class, anxiously ready to go so I could make a trip to Hobby Lobby, I got a text from my husband. He usually doesn't text me during class unless it's something important like he just won the lottery or he doesn't want me to forget his pizza on the way home. This message was highly unusual and said, "I just killed our first snake of the season." Excuse me, what?

Now, I grew up in the country, and I was even a counselor at a kids' camp where it was considered typical to kill a snake a day. But...we are talking about my house that sits in a cute little neighborhood about 2.5 minutes from a WalMart. When we signed the papers to purchase it, I didn't think we were buying snakes, too. Apparently, I was wrong.

I called to get the details (after my class was over, of course), and I was told by a very excited 28-year-old that the snake was on the front porch and that when he came back with the shovel, it was slithering (hate that word) into the bushes in front of our house. When my husband attempted to kill it, it apparently started biting the shovel. Why? I don't really know.

He's attempted to lure me into the yard to look at it because he "saved it" for me, but I can't get down with snakes.