Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Monty
Monty arrived in a pillowcase, his coils leaving suspicious bulges in the fabric, which shifted their position when I touched them. The staff at the RSPCA refuge in Canberra urged caution on me in unison as I craned my neck into the pillowcase, reached inside, and pulled out a magnificent diamond python. Moments later, he was coiled around my neck like an animated Aussie-rules football scarf, and the rest of the room was empty.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, even if I did call him Monty. He liked nothing better than to swim in our bath, and then lie underwater with only his nostrils exposed, like some smooth-scaled benign crocodile, and he enjoyed coiling himself around my neck and being taken for walks. I entertained a notion that it would be good fun to answer the door when the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormons knocked, wearing nothing but Monty, but I never plucked up the courage, and then the evangelists stopped visiting anyway. Perhaps they had heard rumours. Friends regarded him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Once in a while, one of them would summon the gumption to touch him, exclaiming delightedly, “Oh! His scales are just like glow-mesh,” and then they would hastily close the cage door, as if he was about to bite them.
I was only ever bitten by Monty on one occasion. Just prior to changing their skins, the scales that cover the eyes of snakes turn opaque, obscuring their vision. I made the mistake of trying to feed Monty whilst he was in this condition, and he understandably mistook my hand for the proffered morsel. Soon, the whole of his disarticulated jaw was wrapped around my fist, and his coils, as if by a reflex action, were constricting my forearm. My dad came rushing with a pair of tweezers to prize him off, and all I could do was gasp, “Be careful not to hurt him.” Mercifully, the snake took the hint and withdrew, and in the next few years, he grew to be fourteen feet long: something of a record for his species, I believe.
Try hard to believe me: there is nothing quite like the bond that develops between boy and snake after that first and only bite.
Photo by Les Watson.
Monty
Monty arrived in a pillowcase, his coils leaving suspicious bulges in the fabric, which shifted their position when I touched them. The staff at the RSPCA refuge in Canberra urged caution on me in unison as I craned my neck into the pillowcase, reached inside, and pulled out a magnificent diamond python. Moments later, he was coiled around my neck like an animated Aussie-rules football scarf, and the rest of the room was empty.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, even if I did call him Monty. He liked nothing better than to swim in our bath, and then lie underwater with only his nostrils exposed, like some smooth-scaled benign crocodile, and he enjoyed coiling himself around my neck and being taken for walks. I entertained a notion that it would be good fun to answer the door when the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormons knocked, wearing nothing but Monty, but I never plucked up the courage, and then the evangelists stopped visiting anyway. Perhaps they had heard rumours. Friends regarded him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Once in a while, one of them would summon the gumption to touch him, exclaiming delightedly, “Oh! His scales are just like glow-mesh,” and then they would hastily close the cage door, as if he was about to bite them.
I was only ever bitten by Monty on one occasion. Just prior to changing their skins, the scales that cover the eyes of snakes turn opaque, obscuring their vision. I made the mistake of trying to feed Monty whilst he was in this condition, and he understandably mistook my hand for the proffered morsel. Soon, the whole of his disarticulated jaw was wrapped around my fist, and his coils, as if by a reflex action, were constricting my forearm. My dad came rushing with a pair of tweezers to prize him off, and all I could do was gasp, “Be careful not to hurt him.” Mercifully, the snake took the hint and withdrew, and in the next few years, he grew to be fourteen feet long: something of a record for his species, I believe.
Try hard to believe me: there is nothing quite like the bond that develops between boy and snake after that first and only bite.
Photo by Les Watson.