New Year’s resolution?

Pitter patter,  pitter patter,  pitterSQUEEEEE...!

Silence.

I lie wide-eyed staring into the dark. Apprehension edges through me as I strain to catch a tell-tale sound.

Directly over my head an innocent rodent has just met its doom.
And I don't know why (or more precisely, whom).

For the last couple of months my nights have been haunted by the slaughter in my ceiling. The piercing shrieks of dying bats, mice and geckos shatter my dreams.
Somewhere in my roof lurks a Large Predatory Beast. And, so far, I've been too cowardly to find out what it is.

Tomorrow's supper? An Egyptian slit-faced bat (Nycteris thebaica) hides out in my bathroom.

While everyone's busy making New Year resolutions, I'm debating whether I should resolve to clamber up on my kitchen bench, clear away the cobwebs and poke my head up into the ceiling.

To look or not to look...

I know that as a wildlife enthusiast I should be bursting with curiosity and as a zoologist my scientific zeal should outweigh all other considerations. But I'm fairly certain The Beast is limb-free. And I do NOT like snakes. The tiny feet of mice and geckos hammer a noisy tattoo on my ceiling, and even visiting birds (shopping for nest sites) sound as if they're attending a tap-dance festival.
But when The Beast prowls, I hear nary a footfall.
Only one sound is detectable: a heavy, sliding slither. It's the sort of sound that, in the dead of night, conjures images of a hooded hunchback dragging his withered leg or a silent assassin gently shifting his kitbag.

I know you think I'm being paranoid. I'm mean lots of people have wildlife (even legless wildlife) living in the cosy space between ceiling and roof. But the problem is, only half my house has a proper ceiling. My lounge and kitchen are roofed with sagging sheets of thickened bubble-wrap, and each swayback strip - draped precariously over dangling wires – is bordered by big yawning gaps.
Call me wimpy, but I'm convinced that sooner or later - intentionally or otherwise – The Beast is going to drop down into my house.

Is it better, or worse, to know what's destined to land on your head?

The possible contenders are not encouraging. There are three nocturnal mammal-killers with a penchant for climbing: the snouted cobra, the African rock python and the brown house snake.

What I'm afraid I'll see if I poke my head through a gap in the ceiling. The snouted cobra (Naja annulifera) was once considered a variant of the Egyptian cobra (aka Cleopatra's downfall) but has now been granted taxonomic independence. Photo by Michael Randsburg.

Snouted cobras scare the Hell out of me. They're the thugs of the cobra family. It isn't enough for them to tote a highly lethal neurotoxin, or to inject enough of it to kill ten humans. No, they also have to indulge in body-building. Why any cobra feels the need to attain boa-like proportions is beyond me, but when you're battling a snake phobia, it's just not nice.


As with most muscle-bound heavies, snouted cobras are active at night. Occasionally I meet one at dusk while walking my dogs at the local mine. Last time, the dogs were too busy haring after a duiker to notice the snake coiled by the track, but as I approached it reared up threateningly and spread its hood. Although quite reasonable in length (about 2 metres/6 feet), its yellowish body (banded here and there with grey) was as thick through as my thigh (the part toward the knee; I can't vouch for the rest after Xmas indulgences). The creature stood poised with its head at waist-height (I hate the way South African snakes do this; isn't there some biblical stricture about 'slithering on thy belly') and its massive hood was a scary 25 cm ( 10") across. I felt queasy. Hissing threateningly, it glared at me for a few moments before correctly concluding I was not a threat and gliding smoothly up into the canopy.



A captive snouted cobra showing off its glorious physique.
Photo posted on Flickr by KBugler.





To find out whether I was alone in my feelings towards the snouted cobra, I turned to the internet. The herpetological forums are a source of endless fascination for me. A snouted cobra photo that sends shivers down my spine elicits a volley of appreciative comments:

"I love this beautiful snake".

"One of my favourite species..."

"A stunning specimen of a gorgeous snake. I still miss Paul."

Huh?

The next comment, after a paragraph of snake-directed superlatives, concludes:

"Paul was a really great guy."

Yep, you guessed it. After a short search I find that Paul died several years ago after a snouted cobra nipped him on the wrist.

I do NOT understand snake-enthusiasts!

Of course, The Beast in my ceiling may turn out to be a non-venomous python. Unfortunately, the pythons around here grow a trifle large; husky-eating large. My neighbour, about 1.5 km downriver, recently found one 5.2 metres (17 feet) long showing a heart-warming interest in his Weimaraner dogs. Encountering one on my bed at 2 am has taught me that - venom or no venom - I do not want one of these falling on my head.



My guest room with guest. African rock python (Python sebae).



There is no doubt, that the diminutive brown house snake (Lamprophis fuliginosus) is my one shining hope. It's small (about 1 m/3 ft) and its teeth are entirely venom-free. It even sounds reassuringly friendly; like a house cat.
Of course I've never actually seen one around here...
But maybe that's just evidence of its discrete and humble disposition.

Currently I remain unresolved.
Would you look?

Uninvited house guests


Last Wednesday was an evening for unexpected visitors.

And unwelcome ones.

I was alerted to my first caller by the dogs. I could tell that they weren't just indulging in their usual nightly spat with the porcupine: they sounded threatened.

Dashing outside, to drag them away from whoever might be about to do them in, I wondered whether I'd run headlong into a leopard (they're forever leaving their paw prints round about). But what I discovered was the back half of a very large African rock python (Python sebae) disappearing into my outside bathroom. The dogs were too afraid to attack (ahh, thank goodness for the salutary effects of an eyeful of cobra venom), but were creeping after it, hackles raised and necks outstretched. Wobbly Cat was standing nearby looking like a feather duster who'd suffered electric shock therapy.

The python, hissing stridently (I've never heard a snake actually hiss before), slithered in among the boxes and paraphernalia I store in this unused bathroom, before wrapping itself around the sink plumbing. At around 2.5 - 3 metres (7-9 ft), it wasn't as big as the one that plagued us last summer, but it'd still see my cats as nothing more than appetite-piquing hors d'oeuvres.

I quickly bundled the pets into the house, to prevent any mishaps, and left the snake to entertain itself amongst my worldly goods.

I'd no sooner got all the animals safely shut in the house, than I turned round to see Wobbly staring transfixed at something under the dining table.

Oh God, another snake!

After a scuffle, I managed to drag, shove or carry everyone (except the snake) into my bedroom and squeeze shut the door. Step one complete. I then fetched my tried-and-true snake removal equipment: the kitchen broom and a poster mailing tube.

Well, at least this one was small. In fact, it was only around 0.5 metres (1.5 ft) long, strangely two-toned (glistening black above and white below) and entirely new to me. With great presence of mind (something I tend to relinquish in the presence of snakes), I snapped a couple of blurry photos as it coiled and uncoiled nervously on the concrete floor. Actually, it looked pretty innocuous; after all, it wasn't hissing or puffing, spitting or threatening to strike. In fact, when I got a bit closer I realised that what I'd assumed was its head, upraised and ready in defence, was actually its stumpy tail (as you can see in the photo). It had tucked its head safely away undercover. Aww, the poor little creature; I could almost see it covering its eyes with its hands and trying to be invisible.

Bibron's burrowing asp (Atractaspis bibronii) also labours under the names of southern stilleto snake, mole viper and side-stabbing snake. Living underground, they like to dine on burrowing reptiles, frogs and little baby rodents. When they encounter a nest of these little cuties, they slither about incapacitating several before indulging in their feast.

Any normal person, I told myself, would just pick it up and carry it outside. But I'm not a normal person. I'm the product of a childhood of indoctrination (by a mother determined to keep her animal-loving offspring alive in a land where almost all snakes are lethal). As a concession, I put aside my poster tube and gently shoved the little creature toward the open door with the broom. It writhed about with weird jerky movements, its head flicking sideways, so rapidly and frequently, it looked as if it had some awful nervous palsy. I'd never seen any snake behave like this.

After I'd persuaded it out the door (and had released the jostling pets), I sat down to identify it.

Oh. It wasn't harmless after all.

In fact, it was quite extraordinary.

It was a Bibron's (or southern) burrowing asp and - I was startled to learn - it and its kin (other burrowing asps) have the longest fangs, relative to skull size, of any venomous snake.
Their huge venom glands (which extend for up to 20% of their bodies) churn out a highly toxic brew that zaps your heart and blood pressure, and induces arterial spasms (now there's a symptom you don't see every day). North African species regularly kill people, but the bite of my common, under-the-table variety just leads to pain, severe swelling, blistering, necrosis, nausea, dryness of the throat and vertigo. You can read, here, the stressful story of someone (sans snake phobia) who made the same mistake as me. But read it LATER, because the really interesting bit is still to come!

You see, what's fascinating is that the impressive fangs of these little snakes are designed for underground use. And you can't rise up and strike in the tight confines of a burrow. So how do they prepare dinner? They've opted for the method favoured by street thugs the world over: they sidle up beside their victim and, without so much as opening their mouths, stab them in the ribs.

Their long fangs, located in the front of their upper jaw, actually lie horizontally in the mouth, pointing back toward the corner of their lips. To make room for this weird arrangement, they've had to sacrifice virtually all their other choppers (making swallowing food a pain - well, actually, a series of wriggles – in the neck). Their fangs have a hollow central tube (like a hypodermic syringe) and the tips are keeled for slicing flesh (all the better to get the venom in). When they want to stab a victim, they only have to shift their jaw a bit to one side, so a fang protrudes from their lips, and then jerk their heads down and sideways: POW!
So when my little house guest appeared to be suffering dreadful trembling palsies, it was actually biting the Hell out of the fluffy nylon bristles of the broom. Just shows, you never can tell.

These snakes are particularly problematic because you can't hold them safely behind the head; they just stab you out of the corner of their mouths. You can see a photo of one stabbing a baby mouse here. The Bibron's burrowing asp is also unusual because it has a sharp spine sticking out of the end of its tail (actually a continuation of its... well, spine). Browsing herpetological websites (oh, the shame), it seems that this anatomical feature further complicates things because care-givers of captive beasts (the species is popular for venom studies) often can't be sure whether they've been spiked by a tail or a tooth!

I included these photos, just in case you don't believe that African rock pythons can kill and eat large beasts (such as heedless huskies). This one has constricted to death an imprudent impala.
Photo by Arno and Louise Meintjes.

And this one is just finishing off a tasty steenbok.
Photo by Alex Griffiths.



Spitting in the face of adversary

Today a cobra spat in my face.

It was my own fault really.

We met on the back doorstep; the snake was coming into the house as I was going out.

It was only a juvenile (about 0.5m long) and the colour of flour, which left me unsure of its species. Around here, most Mozambique spitting cobras are either muted terracotta or yellowish tan. Foolishly, I stepped between it and the hole it was fleeing toward, in an attempt to get a better look at it. The instant I blocked its retreat, it went on the defensive, rearing up, flattening out its striped hood and spitting venom like a mad thing.

These very young cobras go quite berserk once they start spitting. While keeping their bodies still, they jerkily swivel their heads back and forth in a semi circle, spitting in every direction. Try to imagine an over-excited machine-gun operator firing from a gun turret.

I felt a spray of venom on my cheeks but fortunately it didn't reach my eyes. The venom is harmless unless it enters a cut or sore, or contacts a mucus membrane. While most cobras' venom is neurotoxic (i.e. targets the nervous system), this species' is primarily cytotoxic (it destroys cells at the site). Get it in your eyes (which is where the snake is aiming) and it's excruciatingly painful; it can even cause permanent blindness if not rinsed out immediately. I'm forever having huge fights with the pets, trying to squirt water into their eyes when they're already going crazy from the pain.

The Mozambique spitting cobra (Naja mossambica) produces 200-300mg of venom; 50mg is fatal to humans. Photo by Ben Tupper and borrowed from here.

It was a snake-filled day all round.

Our brief dalliance with winter weather has ended, and temperatures are now back in the 30's (Celsius). Everyone is shucking off their overcoats and becoming active again. I mean this literally. On my walk with the dogs, I came across four newly shed snake skins. And then, when we were almost home, we met yet another African rock python (Python sebae). This one was young and small (1.5m), which was most reassuring.

Bad photo of tonight's python. Pythons are an ancient group; they used to slither about with the dinosaurs. Their bodies still carry the remnants of their long, lost hind limbs, with the bones from their once-upon-a-time pelvis forming small 'pelvic spurs'.

Flowers galore

It's like paradise here now, thanks to the unseasonable rain.

I counted 41 species of wildflower while walking the dogs last night. I know the names of three!

I was so preoccupied peering at flowers, that I didn't watch where we were walking. Glancing up, I discovered Magic nose to nose with a huge snake. My view was obscured by the dogs, and I thought it was a puff adder (very common here and potentially lethal). Unexpectedly, I screamed (didn't think I was the screaming type) and dragged Magic away; then discovered that it was actually an African rock python. While this was a relief, it shattered my consoling belief that the local pythons would be inactive by now. After all, my resident red toad has been torpid for more than a week, tucked away inside my down sleeping bag.

Of course, all this lush growth is a nightmare for data collection. I simply can't see what the mongooses are doing. In fact, I'm having trouble finding their termite mounds, much less the mongooses themselves!

It's not PC, but I don't like snakes

The python came in again last night.

I think it's determined to eat a cat.

Like a genuine nature-blogger, I actually took some photos of it.

I tried to think of some way of frightening/disconcerting it, so it wouldn't want to come back, but apparently I'm not entirely over my snake phobia, which limited me a bit.

I tried tossing pillows at it (no effect), and hurling marulas at it (also no effect).

It accurately perceives me as a gutless wonder.

It slid back out the window after about an hour of me calling it names.
Fortunately, none of the pets noticed it, as their neuroses are bad enough already.

Maybe I should make fly-screens for the windows?

I'm hoping it will hibernate for winter....

I just realised things could be worse: check out this news item from Townsville, Queensland. Click here.

My hero

Snakes continue to complicate my life, but today I received help from an unexpected quarter.

Magic was deeply traumatized by our last encounter with the python; it was two weeks before she'd even risk sleeping on the floor at night.

Last week I noticed the python's track on the road by my house. That night it tried to take Wobbly Cat. She often sleeps outside on warm nights, and I found her in the morning standing stiffly on the drive, staring constantly around her with saucer eyes. She had a patch of dried saliva across her shoulders and, although seemingly unhurt, she would not move. Her legs trembled for the next four hours. I put her on my bed, and she's stayed there, continuously scanning the door, window and floor, for the last four days.

To exacerbate the trauma, yet another Mozambique spitting cobra (Naja mossambica) has moved into my house. These charmers can spit venom up to 1.5 metres and although their venom is relatively dilute (better for spitting) they're still lethal. The summer before last, a local ranger died after being bitten on the wrist by a youngster he was removing from a nearby lodge.

The cobras come into my house to hunt the frogs, who come in to catch the bugs, who come in to batter themselves against the lights (I felt like Dr Zuess there). My latest house guest spat in Magic's eyes twice on Saturday and although the dogs and cats are convinced its still in the house, I haven't been able to find where it's lurking (I found the last one nestled under the mattress on the bed in my spare room).

Anyway, today as I was working on my computer I heard a kafuffle on the back doorstep. Dashing out, I was startled to find a large Nile monitor (Varanus niloticus) happily scoffing down the spitting cobra. I'd missed seeing him actually kill the unfortunate creature, but he consumed it in less than 5 seconds. Nile monitors are Africa's largest lizard (growing up to 2 metres long) and this particular one (a modest 1.5 m) is a regular visitor. He licks out the dogs' food bowls and bathes in my dish of tadpoles. But until today, I had not realised what a wonderful asset he was!

Nocturnal visitors

Last night was not a peaceful night.

At 2 am, I was woken by Magic (my husky-cross) barking vigorously at something outside the bedroom window. (I keep the dogs inside at night because the local leopards have an unhealthy penchant for domestic animals.) As I was muttering at Magic to shut up, and shoving her half-heartedly with my foot, her barks rose in pitch to a note of hysteria, and she leapt off the bed and fled. Still struggling to wake up, I could hear a slithering, sliding noise at the foot if the bed. Clearly, there was something large in the room other than Magic and me!

After much groping about, my wavering torch beam lit up a three-metre-long African Rock Python (Python sebae) draped across the foot of my bed. Now I know that pythons aren't venomous and therefore I should have been delighted to see one so close up, but it's an awful lot of snake to find on your bed at two in the morning. These snakes sport beautiful iridescent patterns of chocolate, ochre and tan, but all I noticed, in the failing torch light, was how shockingly thick and muscular it was. I was particularly disconcerted that it had come straight in the open window in pursuit of my dog.

Rock pythons grow to 5 m (15 feet) in length so I suppose I should be thankful it wasn't bigger. They hunt mostly warm-blooded critters of impressive size (including large game) but also prey on crocodiles, which is a strong point in their favour to me (negative attitude toward crocodilians attributable to several unfortunate incidents associated with riverside living). Female rock pythons lay 50-100 eggs, each the size of an orange, which they generously coil about, to warm and guard.

As I sat wondering how on earth I was going to get a very large python out of the house without someone getting bitten, it caught sight of me, or, more accurately, the infra-red sensors in its lips were blasted with considerably more body heat than it had bargained for. It promptly realised the imprudence of its decision, and slid straight back out the window.

I was just drifting back to sleep, when 'Something' very large and hairy scurried across my face. Leaping up and groping for the torch, I felt 'The Something' scrabble across my head. Heart pounding, I switched on the torch to find a massive solifuge (the size of an outspread hand) crouched on my shoulder. Solifuges, like pythons, are harmless to people, but it's very difficult to distinguish between solifuge feet and spider or scorpion feet in the dark. I began to feel a little persecuted. I think Magic feels the same. Hitherto a keen snake hunter, she spent all night sitting stiffly in a corner, nervously scanning the room for out-sized reptiles.