It involves, if memory serves, perfectly normal people filling enclosed areas with rattlesnakes and then, for reasons beyond my comprehension, *going in there*. Enclosed areas include such charming places as sleeping bags. Another highlight is bagging them--or, and this is where it almost makes sense--going into this enclosed space and *grabbing* them. Manly men seem to prefer to do it without wearing armor. This puzzles me. Other things with snakes happen too, but I haven't been there in years. Because most reptiles terrify me. A lot.
There's also cooking them and selling parts. I have never harmed one myself. I have, however, watched them be shot as they barrelled toward me, stared at them curled on my porch while my cat tried to protect her kittens from it, and hanging from the roof menacingly, not to mention them slithering across highways and coiling up under my bedroom dresser when, thank you God, I was not home.
Now, I've seen one in a jar.
This is where the entire specific thing comes in.
My condition was, he could go, but could not bring anything living he found there back hom with him, because I know Child and I don't trust him. I was somewhat specific and said, you may not bring a snake home. Child heard this as 'do not bring a live snake home' and acted accordingly.
Today, while looking for coffee, I found a jar in the darker corner of the cabinet, filled with some clear fluid and something else. Huh, I thought, and reached to pick it up. In the brilliant light of this marvelous Good Friday, a wide open rattlesnake mouth glared back at me with sharp teeth.
I never said, apparently, *do not bring home the preserved head of a rattlesnake*.
I'm writing this down for the future.
I've learned my lesson.