Wedged between some pots on my patio, I found this the other morning.
It was tricky extricating it from its narrow berth, and I pulverized a three to four inch section of it as I lifted it out--so that means the snake that shed its silvery skin was about a foot long or a little more.
This is the sixth place I've lived since moving to L.A. in 1975. The wild thing about the duplex in Culver City was the neighbor's doberman--and the deranged roommates. On Manhattan Place in the Wilshire district a bank robber pushed me aside as he jumped over the back fence with a gun and a bag of money. In Silver Lake an expensive bike was stolen out of our garage as I walked back and forth between there and the house putting away Christmas decorations. In Los Feliz there were skunks and raccoons, avocado rustlers, and a housepainter who tried to infiltrate his way into the family. In Sierra Madre a scary drunk guy staggered into our driveway one night--and there were teenagers. Lots of teenagers. They're always wilder than you think, those teenagers.
But I've never had a bear in my jacuzzi or a deer devour my garden or a coyote or a mountain lion stalk my children, as sometimes happens in certain neighborhoods in Los Angeles. And I've never seen a snake in L.A. except while hiking in the San Gabriel mountains. I'm hoping this little guy is a baby boa constrictor and that it has an appetite for squirrel.
