by M. E. Kerr
Snakes Don’t Miss Their Mothers
M. E. Kerr
This book is dedicated to all the workers and volunteers at ARF, the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons. And a salute to the animal shelters, all over the United States, that care for our critters, finding them good homes and loving families.
I also want to acknowledge a dedicated veterinarian, Dr. Ralph (Spike) Wester of Auburn, New York, and my friend since childhood, the late Laura Gwen Griswold Wester. They were married in the 1940s, and they lived happily together up in God’s country, the Finger Lakes, until Laura Gwen’s death in February 2003.
Contents
1 Is This Really Good-bye?
2 A Special Child
3 Ahoy!
4 Exmus Card
5 An Average Child
6 Consensus of Opinion
7 “What Do You Bet?”
8 Sun Lily
9 A Warning from a Snake
10 A Distasteful Secret
11 Wait for the Beep!
12 Heartbroken Family
13 Racetrack Riffraff
14 Dear Diary
15 “Rex, This Is Rags, Can You Hear Me?”
16 Tinsel Turds
17 Days of Rugs and Couches
18 Life Aboard Summer Salt II
19 Coming?
20 The Girl with Four Mothers
21 “Where Did the Little Crumb Come From?”
22 Secret Powers Cats Have
23 “Your Nose Is a Peanut.”
24 A Future with Lot Lice?
25 To Dream the Impossible Dream
26 A Mystery Guest
27 Goldie?
28 The Stray
29 “The Dragon Is Dancing”
30 “The One of Whom I Sing”
31 The Gig
32 P O P!
33 We All Make Mist
34 A Snake Is a Snake Is a Snake
35 Belonging
36 That Could Be Me!
37 A Flying Lesson
38 Help!
39 The Perilous Present
40 Home
41 Zayit
42 Good-bye, Placido
A Personal History by M. E. Kerr
The Roster at Critters
in order of appearance
MRS. SPLINTER Director of Critters
IRVING A twelve-year-old part-German shorthaired pointer, soap-opera devotee, and longtime Critters resident
MARSHALL A black-and-yellow king snake who likes big words and live rats
MR. LARISSA Faithful volunteer
PLACIDO A one-eyed Siamese cat with a terrible secret
CATHERINE A greyhound, rescued from the racetrack, ready to make a bet about anything
GOLDIE A newly arrived yellow Labrador retriever, sought by Uttergore, the dogcatcher with the red gloves
DEWEY An Irish setter who has seen better days
GINNY TINTREE Host and volunteer to animals from Critters
FLO TINTREE Ginny’s mother, host and volunteer to animals from Critters
WALTER SPLINTER Eleven-year-old animal lover and grandson of Critters director
NELL STAR Host and volunteer to animals from Critters
POSH A xoloitzcuintle, resembling a cross between a pig and a pit bull
NOEL An iguana, left inside a Long
Island Railroad train
1
Is This Really Good-bye?
IRVING LIKED TO listen to the adoption interviews, even though in three years no one had ever asked to take him home.
Irving’s cage was right around the corner in the kennel, but he could see the front desk at the entrance of Critters. And he could hear everything.
“Do you live in East Hampton, Mr. Twilight?”
“Yes, we live on a boat called Summer Salt II. Our first was lost to Hurricane Harriet down in Florida, last summer.”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Splinter eyed the tall man carefully. She was the guardian angel of the critters. She would never give an animal over to anyone she did not think was kind and responsible. “So you’re new in town, Mr. Twilight?”
He had blond hair, a black crewneck sweater, and black Dockers. A big silver belt buckle. Black boots. A big smile.
“We’re new for now, ma’am,” he said. “We came north so my daughter could dance at Radio City Music Hall. Jimmie’s in the Christmas show every year. She plays Twinkle Toes. We’ll stick around to see if she gets this new job she’s up for. A television commercial.”
“Your daughter appears on television?” Mrs. Splinter sounded impressed, but Irving knew she probably wasn’t, for her own son was a CNN newscaster.
“Jimmie hasn’t been on television yet,” said Mr. Twilight. “Her agent arranged an appointment for her with the head of BrainPower Limited. We’ve always been in show business, but we’re mainly circus people.”
“Oh, dear me,” said Mrs. Splinter. “I don’t like the way circuses treat animals. They’re so often cruel.”
“I wouldn’t work for a circus that was cruel to its animals,” Mr. Twilight said. “Where I worked, we treated all our animals like family.”
“Good! But now you’re leaving the circus?” Mrs. Splinter asked.
“Yes, for my daughter’s sake. She needs to be with kids her own age. Regular kids. Now, with her mother gone, she needs a more normal life. I’ve decided to get off the road.”
“What will you do, Mr. Twilight?”
“Call me Sam. I work as a clown for children’s parties. And I rent the boat out for picnics and moonlight sails. This time of year, I get gigs as Santa Claus.”
“And have you ever owned a cat, Sam?”
“No. My wife always had Siamese when she was a kid, but after we were married we got a little dog for Jimmie. A Boston terrier who could dance on his hind legs. I don’t see any little dogs here.”
“There are none,” Mrs. Splinter said.
There never were little dogs in residence at Critters, not for long. Everyone wanted a cute little poodle, a terrier, a dachshund, even a bedraggled mutt, if he was small.
Irving sighed. Irving was twelve years old. He was white with great splashes of brown, and he was big. He was mostly a German shorthaired pointer, but there was a bit of English setter in him, too.
Sam Twilight said, “I couldn’t bring home a dog, anyway. No dog could hold a candle to Dancer. That was our dog’s name.”
Mrs. Splinter said, “How old is your daughter, Mr. Twilight?”
“She’s eleven, ma’am.”
“I have a grandson who’s that age. Walter. He’s an animal lover, as I am … Did you say your daughter’s name was Jimmie?”
“Her name is spelled with an ie,” said Sam Twilight. “My wife named her Jimmie after Jimmie Spheeris. I suppose you don’t know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He was a songwriter. He was from circus people, too. So when he made it big in the Real World, my wife would make everybody listen to his songs. Then a drunk driver ran him down when he was only thirty-four. Our boat’s named after one of his songs.”
“Is Jimmie an animal lover?”
“Oh, yes. Her Boston terrier went to heaven at the same time her mom did, but Jimmie has carried on like the little trouper she is. That’s why I want her to have a new pet to love. Pets help heal you when you’re down. And when you feel up again, they’re up with you! At least that’s what I think,”
“I think so too. Yes. Yes, Sam.” Mrs. Splinter’s voice was soothing, a sign she was warming to this Twilight fellow, with his sad story and his optimistic-spirit. She said, “Now, you realize that the cat you picked out was declawed. His last owner had that done! He can’t go outdoors. He wouldn’t be able to protect
himself, climb trees, scratch attackers, or any of that.”
“Fine, because he’ll live aboard Summer Salt II, which is moored at Three Mile Harbor.”
“You’ll have to keep him inside, you realize. If he ever fell overboard, he could not cling to anything without his claws.”
“We take excellent care of animals, Mrs. Splinter. Like I said, my family considers them family.”
“Well, so far so good,” said Mrs. Splinter. “Do you think Jimmie would like to see Placido before you adopt him?”
“No, ma’am. It’s to be a surprise.”
Placido? Irving’s ears pricked up, and he shook away some drool from his large lips. Don’t tell me Placido’s going out again, he thought. That was the way they always put it at Critters when Placido was adopted: “going out.” That left room in the mind for the idea of Placido coming back. For that was what always happened when anyone took the large, one-eyed Siamese home. He went out, and then he came right back. His fake-leopard-skin carrying case was a familiar sight on the floor in the front room.
Irving doubted that Placido would last through Christmas with the man and his daughter. It was now the twenty-third of December. Lately, Placido’s usual stay was twenty-four hours.
While Mrs. Splinter explained Critters’ adoption rules, Irving stood up and shook himself. The vibration was just enough to awaken Marshall, as Irving had intended. It would have done little good to bark, for Marshall had no ears. He communicated by an intricate form of reptile extrasensory perception, but he had to be awake first.
Marshall’s glass cage was next to the radiator, where it was warmer. Unlike any of the other cages, his had wire mesh at the top. It was an escape-proof cage—not that Marshall had any plans to slither off to the unknown.
Marshall was the only snake at Critters.
Three feet long, black with yellow crossbands, Marshall unfurled and nosed up through the wood chips. His forked tongue darted in and out. He was cranky, Irving knew, because he had just changed his outfit. Whenever he shed his old skin, he sulked for a while and even refused to eat.
“What is going on?” he asked. He was a king who often sounded royally stern and wise. He liked big words and live rats.
“Placido’s being adopted,” said Irving.
“You woke me up for that?” Marshall was not a fan of Placido’s. There was not an abundance of Placido fans at Critters, unless they were visitors who hadn’t spent any time there. Placido was not easy. Word of his shenanigans down in the cat room always reached the dogs, who thanked heaven he was a feline and not allowed in with them.
“Don’t you at least want to wish Placido Merry Christmas and say good-bye?” Irving was a decent sort who forgave the faults and flaws of others.
“How many times a year am I supposed to say good-bye to Placido?” Marshall asked.
“You have a point there,” said Irving. “But you’ve never wished him Merry Christmas.”
“Placido will be back for Christmas,” said Marshall, “so I’ll save my breath.” He relaxed into a heap by his water bowl. “My family never celebrated Christmas,” he said. “We never celebrated any day. But the critters here all seem to dread Christmas. They’re beginning to whine and complain more than ever.”
“We get homesick this time of year,” said Irving.
Marshall had arrived last Valentine’s Day. The East Hampton police had brought him in. Some people had skipped out of a house without paying six months’ rent, and Marshall had been found in the bathtub.
Now Mr. Larissa, the most faithful Critters volunteer worker, was heading down toward the cat room. He was carrying the empty fake-leopard case.
News of the adoption began to spread among the dogs.
Mr. Larissa went into the cat room, swinging the doors open with a joyful motion, pleased that a cat would get a home for the holidays. The dogs caught a brief glimpse of the felines lolling about on the thick green rug, crawling around the carpeted shelves, pawing at leftover summer flies groggily climbing up the windows.
“Wake up, Placido!” Mr. Larissa sang out. “You have a new home!”
The door closed before a sneaky calico cat could make a break for the hall.
“I never had any home but the racetrack,” said a very skinny greyhound wistfully. “But I’ll make a bet that Placido will be back before our Christmas stockings are put out. Who wants to bet?” Catherine had been in many dog-track races, and she had acquired a fondness for gambling. She often took bets on things that were happening at Critters.
“I’ll bet,” said a yellow Labrador retriever, who did not really know the Siamese cat. He had arrived only a week ago, no dog tags on him. He had jumped out the window of his family’s car when his sharp eye had spotted a rabbit off in the fields. Then he had run loose for days and miles, lost and scared. His family had just moved to Long Island, and the land was strange to him. Although he did not appreciate it at the moment, he was a lucky dog. If the dogcatcher had found him, he would have been spending Christmas in a dark, damp basement with arachnids and rats.
His real name was Rex, but at Critters they’d named him Goldie.
“Goldie? I’ll bet you my Christmas stocking that Placido will be returned in a day!” said Catherine.
“That’s a bet!” Goldie said. “Even if he doesn’t work out, I bet people would let him stay for Christmas.”
“Any other takers?” Catherine called out.
No one spoke up.
Then Mr. Larissa reappeared. This time his right shoulder was tilted from the weight of the fourteen-pound Siamese cat inside the carrier.
“Wish Placido a Merry Christmas, everyone!” he said.
“Merry Christmas,” said everyone but Marshall, who would wait until Placido returned.
Mr. Larissa stopped by the cages for a moment and said, “Oh, I know you all feel lonely because it’s Christmastime. But don’t give up hope. One day you’ll be adopted too!”
Irving’s tail barely thumped as Placido passed by. Irving wasn’t in a joyful mood. It would be his third Christmas at Critters. It was not that bad a place, but it was not a real home. Still, it was warm and the food was good. There were the Christmas stockings, too, each one containing a ball and two lamb-and rice sticks, which were Catherine’s favorite treat.
“Good-bye, everyone!” Placido’s nose was pressed against the airholes. “Good-bye!”
Once again, the creatures at Critters called out hopefully, “Good-bye, Placido!”
“Good riddance,” some of them said under their breaths, particularly the felines, for they were the ones at his mercy when he was in residence.
2
A Special Child
HE WAS A SPECIAL child with the face of a Botticelli angel and the disposition of a little lamb. Oh, he was special, was this little baby, and he was given a very special name: Percival Kermit Uttergore. When he was old enough to give orders, somewhere between ages three and five, he had his parents strike the name Kermit from all the records, since there was a frog by that name on national television.
He was not going to bear a frog’s name, not this special, golden-haired, blue-eyed boy everyone said was a genius and might one day even be a corporate head or a talk-show host.
He had not, sad to say, grown up to be a corporate head nor a talk-show host, but he did have one of those license plates with just two initials, and there was a rather remarkable logo, painted by his own hand, on each side of his old, rusting brown Bronco.
P U, his license plates read.
A pair of gloves, the color of cherries, adorned each door.
“What’s that?” he shouted into his cell phone, slowing up to hear better. “What’s that?” he repeated. He blamed his deafness on the barking dogs he fetched from garbage dumps, storefronts, alleys, and pastures: wretches that were lost or unwanted.
When there was a reward for the dog, he sent his ailing sister to collect it. As a salaried public servant he was not allowed to take a reward for what he was
paid to do.
His ailing sister was given one percent for herself. Percival Uttergore gave it grudgingly, but it was proof, nonetheless, of the old adage that no one is all bad.
His ailing sister had telephoned Uttergore in his van to alert him that there were new lost-dog posters everywhere—on telephone poles, in store windows, on supermarket bulletin boards, fastened under the windshield wipers of parked cars—you name it and a poster was sure to be there. So said Ursula Uttergore.
“What kind of dog?” he demanded. “Speak up, Ursula!”
“Please” and “thank you” had been dropped from his vocabulary soon after Kermit had been eliminated from his name.
His once-curly blond hair was now brown and filled with soot, dandruff, and yellow scales that perhaps would wash out in a shampoo, though that had not been tried for a long time.
The baby-blue eyes were bloodshot, and he had a beard to protect his face from shaving.
Filthy was he, and he reeked so badly that his wife had run off, taking with her Percival Uttergore Junior, a bully who hung out at bowling alleys reading comic books.
But year after year Mr. Uttergore was reelected dogcatcher, for no one else ever ran for that office.
“I don’t give a whistle that his name is Rex! What kind of dog is he?”
His ailing sister replied that it was a yellow Labrador retriever.
Some dogs that came into his cellar he sold to laboratories doing research, particularly dogs that were healthy, that had not been lost for very long. This retriever sounded like just such a dog.
Uttergore got out his red wool gloves and stepped on the gas.
3
Ahoy!
BEFORE HIS LOVELY BLUE right eye was punctured beyond repair, Placido had won so many ribbons at cat shows, he could not count them all on four paws. He had been the only cat at the breeder’s who was free to stroll from the cattery to the house, where he would climb to the back of the couch to be admired. He was a purebred seal-point Siamese, once known as Prince from Siam. He had had a sterling silver bowl with his name on it. He had had a sterling silver mirror and comb. He had had his own scrapbook. In those days he had had his way. He had kneaded Persian rugs and clawed the arms of hand-embroidered Regency sofas. No one dared spank him, for he was a prize winner, temperamental by nature.
