It never snows where we live here in Port Lincoln South Australia but occasionally we get a winter cold enough to freeze the water in our bird bath. On the first mild day after one such winter, not one, not two, not three, but four deadly brown snakes slithered out from under our house.
They ranged in size from a modest three-footer to a massive specimen six feet long and as thick as my wrist – the largest brown I’ve ever seen. Because the weather that spring was variable the four of them refused to stray from around our door so they could slip back under the house when it grew too cold.
In addition to the obvious problem this posed for us getting in and out of the house, having these snakes so close to the door was a danger to our two-year-old grandson, not to mention our dog and three cats and any friends who came to visitor.
At the time Port Lincoln had no snake catcher (I'm not sure it even does now), and as the snakes refused to move on, sadly, it left us with little choice.
My son carried out the deed as humanely as possible, cleanly severing the head of the largest snake with our ax. (The only good thing that can be said for this is that it finally convinced the other three snakes to leave so we didn’t have to kill them as well.)
To our absolute horror, the snake’s headless body writhed on the grass for twenty-two minutes (I know because I timed it).
I learned in my research for Lying In Wait, the possible explanation for this. Some large snakes have a second ‘brain’ midway along the length of their body. This is little more than a bundle of nerves that acts as a kind relay station, boosting the signal from the animal’s head. It continues to fire random signals for several minutes after the animal is dead which accounts for the snake’s post mortem movements.
However, to date I’ve found no explanation for the second bizarre phenomenon we witnessed that day: when my son went to dispose of the snake’s severed head, it hissed at him.