Up Moses Creek: Cinnamon Bun eats out
The rattlesnake basked by the hollow railroad tie that was her home. Burt Kornegay photo
A female timber rattler lived inside an old railroad tie beside our back porch last summer, coming out in the afternoons to lie on the steps in the sun. Curled up like that, the snake showed swirls of light brown, with dark-toasted bands, and her scales gave off a sugary glaze, so Becky named her Cinnamon Bun.
We knew the snake was female because in July she’d shed her skin, and I counted the scales on the underside of the tail. Female timber rattlers have fewer than 21 such scales, males more than 21. Cinnamon Bun had 19. Her skin measured 40 inches long, plus two more inches if you add the 10 rattles.
One afternoon in late August I assumed Cinnamon Bun was emerging to bask when I heard Becky call from the kitchen window, “Come see!” But that afternoon, as we watched, the snake climbed up a nearby rock wall instead, from which she scanned the yard. Then she slowly slithered along the stone walkway and across the front steps—while we followed from window to window. Snakes smell with their forked tongues, and the way Cinnamon Bun flicked hers out continuously like black lightning, we guessed she was on the hunt.
When the snake went under our deck, we tiptoed out and caught glimpses of her down through the spaces between the deck boards. Suddenly we saw her move quickly out into the yard — then stop. A chipmunk was just inches away! Chipmunks are a timber rattler’s favorite food, and we thought Cinnamon Bun would strike. Several minutes passed before I realized the chipmunk was strangely hunkered, head down, as if falling asleep.
“It’s already been struck!” I whispered to Becky, pointing to a wet spot at the creature’s right shoulder where the fangs had penetrated. I knew there was no need to whisper, of course, since snakes don’t have ears, but to our ears it sounded like the right thing to do. Cinnamon Bun must have struck while she was under the deck, and the chipmunk — envenomated — ran a little way but could go no farther. We were close enough to see flies landing on the wet spot. But when we drew up chairs and looked through our binoculars, what happened next felt almost too close.
With a motion nearly imperceptible, the snake edged up and smelled the chippy from head to tail. The chipmunk gave a spasmodic lurch, and the snake drew back. Time was on the rattler’s side. Chipmunk time was running out. Slowly, the snake moved close again and put her snout up to the chipmunk’s ear. I thought of the serpent in the Garden of Eden hissing to innocent Eve, “Take and eat!”
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A yellow jacket joined the flies. The yard birds gathered overhead to scold and fuss. The snake paid them no mind. When a fly landed on her head, she shook it off like a dog.
Now Cinnamon Bun moved nose to nose with the stricken chipmunk, as if savoring its little breaths. Then, unhooking her jaws, she gaped and took the chipmunk’s head into her mouth. The chipmunk jerked back out. Three times we watched the snake mouth the chipmunk. Three times it kicked back out. The fourth time the rattlesnake clamped tight. Chipmunk time was up.
With the chipmunk’s head now secure, Cinnamon Bun began tugging at her prey, and with each tug the little animal went in deeper. Reaching the Chipmunk’s shoulders, the snake “walked” her top jaw over one of its front legs then walked her bottom jaw over the other leg, tugging each time. The flies were frantic. Their food was disappearing.
As she swallowed the chipmunk, Cinnamon Bun herself began to grow. First, her head expanded until it was grotesque, deformed. Next, as the ‘munk went deeper, the snake’s dark narrow neck ballooned and turned white — the skin color showing between the scales. Before they disappeared, I thought I saw the Chipmunk’s little back feet quiver. Then the only thing left sticking out was its furry tail.
The rattler reared up like a cobra. Her eyes bulged and glared: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!” The furry tail slipped out of sight.
Cinnamon Bun yawned to re-hook her jaws. And as she worked the white bulge on down, her head became triangular again, her neck shrunk. When she started moving toward the back porch, she alternately pulled with her head and pushed with her tail to drag her swollen belly along.
I was at my desk writing this up when Becky called again from the kitchen. I joined her in time to see Cinnamon Bun slide back into the old railroad tie. The hunt had taken her four hours. For us it was suppertime.
(Burt and Becky Kornegay live in Jackson County.)
