Over the course of our lives, there are some things we’ll never forget, no matter how old we grow.  Maybe I should say there are some things we’ll never live down, no matter how old the witnesses grow.  You can avoid embarrassment if you just tell the story yourself.  This is one of my wife’s favorites.

I should begin by explaining that I’m not overly fond of snakes.   More honestly, I could outrun Jesse Owens if he were chasing me with one.   They were put on this earth for the sole purpose of scaring the crap out of me.   I only like one kind of snake … fried.

Several years ago, we lived in a rural area of Jacksonville, Florida.   One evening, just after dusk, I was on the front porch with our Cocker Spaniel, when I heard a buzzing sound in the grass a few feet from the concrete porch.

The sound was familiar, but not very loud.  I tried hard to convince myself that it wasn’t a rattlesnake, though they are very common in that area of the country.

About the time I was ready to dismiss it to an overly-active imagination, the dog heard it.  He ran to the edge of the porch and assumed a textbook "point" stance, with one paw raised, and the hair on his back standing straight up.  It was the one and only time I saw my dog perform like the natural-born hunter he was supposed to be.

I told my wife we had a rattlesnake in the yard, and got my shotgun.   As I loaded it, she reminded me that discharging a firearm within city limits, even in rural areas, was strictly against the law.  This was a tough decision.  Share a jail cell with Big Jim, or share my yard with a snake?  Bolt closed, safety off.

My neighbor came over to see what was going on.  He listened, and agreed that it was a rattlesnake, probably a pygmy.  He ran home and returned with his wife’s pellet gun.  As much as I appreciated the gesture, I told him to put his Red Rider special away.  This was war.  If you really want to help, bring hand grenades.

His truck was equipped with a powerful spotlight, so he pulled it into my front yard and illuminated the area.  From the sound, we had pinpointed it to an area of ground about the size of a washcloth.  I crept in, my finger on the trigger, to within three feet of where it had to be.

Then, I spotted it.  Instead of the coiled up, fanged monster I was looking for, I found a large dragonfly caught in the dry grass, flapping its wings in a futile attempt to get away before some lunatic shot it.

Naturally, my lovely wife was standing right behind me the whole time, committing the entire episode to memory.  That’s not to say she’d ever tell a single person.  No, for a story like this, she assembles a crowd.