Feral Cities Read Free

to the homes lies a patch of undeveloped desert dotted with spiky green bushes and tall cacti.
    â€œIt’s probably going to be a western diamondback—it’s the most common snake here,” says Bryan as we turn into the driveway of the house with the rattlesnake.
    A woman is waiting for us. “It’s in there,” she says, pointing at the garage. Bryan opens the back of the truck and gets out an empty red bucket and his snake hook—a long metal stick with a smooth U-shaped hook at one end.
    We enter the garage. In one corner is a coiled-up dusty gray rattlesnake with its head raised and ready to strike. Diamond-shaped patches of darker gray run along its back, and its underside is a patternless egg white. Its tail points upward and is rattling manically.
    At the opposite corner of the vast garage are a young man and a terrified-looking woman with frizzy hair and a high-pitched voice. She’s brandishing a garden rake as if she expects the snake to fly across the garage at any moment. You could probably fit a bus in the space between her and the snake.
    Bryan glances at the snake. “It’s a western diamondback,” he says.
    â€œWow! Look at the face. He’s angry,” says the woman with the frizzy hair.
    â€œHe thinks you’re predators and are about to eat him alive,” explains Bryan as he flips the lid off the bucket.
    He moves in, snake hook at the ready. The diamondback rattles even faster.
    â€œOh, crap! Oh my goodness!” squeals the woman. “He is so big! Oh my God!”
    Bryan stretches his arm out and twists the hook so it slips underneath the snake’s body. He carefully lifts the snake into the air and gently tips it into the bucket before slapping on the lid. We’ve been here less than ninety seconds.
    â€œThat’s awesome!” says the man.
    The high-pitched woman looks stunned. “That’s it?” she asks.
    â€œThat’s it,” confirms Bryan.
    â€œWhat you going to do with it?” she asks, putting down the rake. “I’m going to let him go,” replies Bryan.
    â€œNot around here,” says the woman, staring at the hissing bucket.
    â€œNo, but I do have to release him within a mile. But he won’t come back. This is the scariest thing he has ever experienced. He thinks he is dying right now—he thinks that something has eaten him. So even if I put him right outside, this garage was a near-death experience and he won’t come back in.”
    Reassured, she recounts the discovery of the snake. “He was on my son’s clothes. I pushed it, and then I saw it was moving, and then I freaked out.”
    â€œDid you leave the garage door open?” asks Bryan. She nods.
    â€œThis is a cave,” says Bryan. “If you’re a snake and you see this thing, it’s a cave. It’s a nice way to get out of the sun. Rodents will come in too, sometimes, and the snakes will track them into here.”
    â€œThe bobcats!” exclaims the woman suddenly. “What about the bobcats? They poo! Do you pick up bobcats?”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about the bobcats,” says Bryan.
    â€œBut they are in my swimming pool,” she says, excitedly. “I cannot swim. I cannot swim. They’re wicked. A mom and two children. With the snake here and the bobcats in the swimming pool—all kinds of poos!”
    â€œThe bobcats will just run off if you go outside. They don’t attack,” says Bryan.
    We return to the truck and load the trapped snake in the trunk. As we leave, Bryan explains that situations like this are typical. “See all these rocks?” he says, as we look at the front yard. “They are like the perfect habitat—it’s what the rattlesnakes look for.”
    We look at the untouched desert right next to the house. “It’s amazing that someone who lives here is so shocked. They should have seen a rattlesnake before, but