Driving home from work (more on that later) this evening, I saw a snake, torn up on the shoulder of the road, clearly dead, deceased, ex-snake. I mentioned it to Firstchild, and she said, "Let's go see it! If it's a rattlesnake, can we bring back the rattle?" She then itemized the things we'd need, such as a knife (the ever-present Gerber EZ-Out) and a Ziploc bag.
Barbaloot's cooking was not going to be ready for another half hour, so we got jackets (temps are falling on the Front Range, y'all) and headed for the van. Boy noticed the commotion and asked where we were going.
"To see a snake?"
"Yes."
"Can I come too?"
"Sure."
Middlechild didn't want to at first, but changed her mind. We left Barbaloot home alone with simmering tomato sauce and drove to Crowfoot Canyon Road. We searched mightily along that hundred-meter stretch but no snake remains. Something must have come to claim him.
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