Scrumble: that’s a scrum on top of a rumble. Which can be vicious, given the players and the location. There I was—diligently laboring over the absolutely perfect wording to enrapture a potential agent in a query letter—when all hell broke loose. Literally. Alone in my studio, and on property, it was up to me to break up the fight and save my four dogs from certain disaster. Images of blood and guts from prior scrumbles flashed through my panicked brain. Rascal with half his face ripped off; Phoenix with his groin torn open; and precious little Maya with her belly eviscerated. And there were more. Many more injuries our “pack” have endured over the years. I shudder even as I write.
With my blood pressure soaring, I raced toward the frightening, high-pitched barking. All four dogs were wedged between a steep slope along the driveway and the perimeter fence, just barely keeping the jungle at bay. Barking, biting, growling, and wrestling in the dirt and debris. I prayed they didn’t hurt each other in the scuffle. There was no way I could get down to them. Not in my flip-flops and flowy, beach dress. Besides, I might have been bitten in the melee. My only means of intervention was screaming, which I did at the top of my lungs. The few small rocks I threw at them had zero impact on stopping the fracas.
Finally, little Luca came up the hill to me. After checking her for injuries, I whisked her inside the house and went back to get the other three. Maya, Luca’s sister, was the next to peel herself away. Then Rascal, and finally Phoenix, the alpha of our little family. He, of course, had to establish his domination over what was surely a kill.
I went over their bodies with a fine-toothed comb, looking for lacerations or fang punctures. Nada. Gracias a dios. Phoenix had been bitten on the tongue by a terciopelo—one of the most venomous snakes in the jungle—a few years ago and was only saved by our house sitters, who got him to the vet in time for an anti-venom infusion. After a few deep breaths, I poured myself a glass of wine. Medicinal, of course—for the acute tissue inflammation in my throat, not to mention my frayed nerves. I was done writing for the day, that was for sure.
When K returned home later, he went to investigate the crime scene. Sure enough, there was a dead body. A six-foot mangled parrot snake. We quickly pulled out our snake ID book and, of course, googled the damned thing to make sure it was not venomous. Turns out they are mildly venomous, with fangs at the back of their upper jaws that latch onto prey to deliver venom, which is good for immobilizing frogs and lizards but causes only pain and swelling in larger species. Like us humans and our dogs.
Just another day in the jungle. This time without a hefty vet bill. Pura vida!
Judy Richter 