The Hardest Part

I once snuck a large Burmese python onto a flight from Arizona to Idaho.

Then back again.

If you think this was the hardest thing I’ve ever done with Hank, the snake I bought as a pet back in college, you’d be wrong. Before 9/11, airport security was primarily based on the honor system, so I just wrapped Hank around the inside of my shirt, walked confidently through the gate, then moved him into a duffle bag for the flight. He was only like seven feet long at the time so it really wasn’t a big deal.

You then might guess it was the time I left him in the bathroom while I went to work but instead of just relaxing in the tub like he’d promised, he crawled out, broke the water valve behind the toilet, and flooded two floors of our apartment complex. Sure, that one involved a professional cleaning crew and a call from King County Emergency Services, but it’s still not the hardest.

You might also guess it was the time I had to apologize to the mother of the grade schooler who peed his pants after Hank and I showed up for show-and-tell. Or when I had to destroy the bottom half of our queen-size bed after he entangled himself within the box-spring then refused to come out peacefully. Or when I ended up at the ER with 64 needle-like punctures across my hand the time he mistook me for dinner.

But, no.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done with Hank was say goodbye to him last month.

With proper care, Burmese pythons can live 20-25 years. Hank was 33. That’s a long time to have anything in your life, especially a 14-foot, 120lb exotic entertainer. I had no idea what I was committing to when I picked him up from the reptile store all those years ago. I certainly never imagined that small hatchling would be there (not literally) when I got married. That he’d move to five different states with me. That he’d welcome all four of my children into our home and watch them leave for college. That he’d meet my grandkids. That he’d outlive my best friend, my sister, and my dad. That he’d entangle himself within my heart then refuse to come out peacefully.

It seems weird, to most, to mourn the death of a snake. Even those who’ve lost a beloved pet struggle to find the right words. I think it’s because the customary “you’ll see him again at the rainbow bridge” seems somewhat inapt, like they’re afraid to offer false hope in case God is still holding a grudge about that mishap in Eden.

The thing is, no one really knows which direction I’ll be heading after this life. I’m confident, though, that as long as I die in a baggy shirt, Hank and I will pass through that final gate together.