Why Owning a Cat is a Really Scary Thing*

Owning a cat can sometimes be a terrifying experience. You never know when they're going to suddenly flip, turning from aloof creatures that keep to themselves, to violently affectionate territorial little monsters, seemingly willing to annihilate any other animal vying for your affection.

My cat Hobbie has lately taken it upon himself to scare the living daylights out of me at least once a month. Ignoring the fact that he is disabled, is fixed and therefore should have little no testosterone production going on in his little emasculated kitty body, he has for quite a while now insisted on fighting bigger males on a semi-regular basis. However, that is no longer enough. Oh no. Now he has to get all schizo on me too.

Hobbie doesn't like other people. He hates men. For instance, although our neighbors have fed Hobbie for years, he still conducts himself exactly like a feral cat if they attempt to get near him. He only likes me. He also tolerates my family, but that's only because we all live together. Babies and children disgust him. So do visitors. Whenever he has to be near any of the aforementioned sort of people he'll fix me with this irate stare like, I do this for you, you unworthy creature. Just remember that.

But recently, that all changed.

It started with one bizarre night when Hobbie started dancing around the room, staring crookedly up at the ceiling with this unparalleled look of contentment on his face. It was like his kitty monologue was going: Ooh, look! I see stars! Lots of pretty stars! And I'm a cat! And I'm in a house! Wheeeee! I have three legs! (Or something equally discombobulated and disturbing).

He then proceeded to insinuate himself into my presence in every possible way, lavishing me with physical affectation.

Now, I was up insanely late reading about serial killers, and thinking about how bizarre it would be to work a serial killing animal - think Beast of Gevaudan - into fiction. Do you think maybe I was a little creeped out? It was like having Dr. Jekyll insisting on sitting on your lap while showering you with compliments. I just had to wonder if at any moment he was going to turn into a rabid, claw-wielding Mr. Hyde, diving for my jugular vein with gusto.

Because he also kept grinning at me in this insanely frightening way. It was like being locked in a room with the Cheshire Cat. I kept thinking, what are you going to do with those teeth, Hobbie?

I could only assume he was in an unmatched drug haze. Yes, my cat is a total addict. He keeps hanging with the cats next door, and their parents let them do catnip. I'm tired of trying to make him stop. Don't judge me. (And it makes him act mellow and happy and sometimes he'll let me pet him and tell him how wonderful he is while he's on it).

But anywho, as you can tell, catnip doesn't usually make him act like a cheerful, affection-craving maniac.

I fed him in an attempt to satiate whatever primal urge was making him act so bizarre, and then went to bed because Hobbie never gets on my bed. He can't stand to sleep with me. I wiggle too much. It was the one place I could be safe from him.

I awoke the next morning from one of my epic claustrophobia dreams feeling like I was:

a) having a life-threatening asthma attack

b) being suffocated by a Muppet

No, of course it couldn't be one of those things. That would be too normal. Of course it would be my cat, sitting on my chest and looking cunningly into my face. It was kind of the emotional equivalent of waking up to find someone standing next to your bed with an axe: it's disturbing. And it makes you want to get out of bed and find your mommy really fast.

The next chapter in my saga was Thanksgiving. We had LOTS of family for Thanksgiving. (Which was wonderful). We did a similar thing five years ago. During that holiday, we had family members staying at our house for a week. They actually questioned Hobbie's existence. They just didn't see him. Which is normal. He hates guests. Oh, his food disappeared like clockwork, but otherwise there was no real proof of a feline presence in our house. Because Hobbie hates people.

So what does Hobbie do this Thanksgiving? He saunters into the kitchen, in the thick of the dinner-making action, and begins rubbing himself all over the legs of my aunt who just really dislikes cats.

He then proceeded to make friends with my male cousin. Now, this is slightly more understandable. My cats always loved my grandfather, and my uncle, and this makes perfect sense because they were bona fide cat worshipers, and cats know these things. Naturally my cousin has this gene. So there you go.

But Hobbie seemed to have, for the day, lost his ability to discern who likes cats and who doesn't. He also seemed to never tire of attention from others. Usually he has a short attention span for adoration. He just finds it exasperating after five minutes or so. But for some sick reason, he was suddenly acting like a house cat. I'll admit, I was getting a little jealous.

I would say that the turkey had drawn out his inner Ms. Congeniality, but Hobbie doesn't love turkey, and his personality was completely altered. Rather than allowing willing humans to come into his presence and dote on him, he had actually been making friendly advances, shamelessly currying the favor of every heretofore despised human in the house.

And also, he was acting so giddy I was terrified he might have some degenerative brain disease and might spontaneously start running through our home and mauling house-guests.

I swept him away at the first opportunity and locked him in my parent's room with some food. He seemed to have the munchies anyway. I also thought it best to put him away before he embarrassed himself too much. (A gesture I was sure he would appreciate when he came to his senses).

Since then, Hobbie seems to have recovered some of his cold demeanor and natural feline dignity. However, at this very moment he is hovering over me as I write, pupils dilated, tail twitching. If I make eye contact with him, he places a paw on my arm or even tries to crawl into my lap, purring, claws perpetually extended. Normal? I think not.

I'm going to go feed him and retreat under my covers, but not before I say this: whoever has been giving my cat crack, please stop. You don't know what it's like to live with someone on a perpetual trip. It's getting scarier every day.




*Note: Okay, But I'm not really scared of my house pets (On a regular basis. For that long. Or that much). But most importantly, I am so not a cat lady. Just in case you may have been wondering about that.

Final verdict on baby mice: it's an excellent way to lose weight, sleep, and peace of mind.
Simon died too yesterday. I knew he was going to. I'm puzzled, I don't know what I did wrong. They both ate well until the last two feedings or so, and used the bathroom regularly to the end. So I can only assume something was wrong with the food I gave them? Simon ate applesauce and soaked oats before he died. I would think that would be nutritionally sufficient. But they both lost weight and were very thin when they died. I don't see how a mouse could pine away while still eating regularly. It isn't logical.
After Garfunkel died I fed Simon every hour, but it still didn't help. The last night, the seventh, I stayed up until two o'clock. Not exactly sure what my master plan was, I just had to keep Simon warm and well-fed. Now I wonder why I do these things, and why I let it upset me, because at the beginning I didn't think they would live and after Garfunkel died I knew Simon would too. So why did I keep pouring time and energy into these things? I don't know. I've been rather mopey and listless, and I feel so ridiculous because I know it's really because they died.
I'm trying to think of the positive things: I kept them alive six and seven days (although I hope they weren't in any sort of pain during all that time), I've learned a lot about mice - for instance, I thought Inman was a wood mouse, but I think I didn't research enough, and they were really deer mice. (They have the cutest little crinkly ears). And I learned a lot about mice - presumably, I still feel dissatisfied with my feeding method. I feel like it kept them here longer when maybe they were uncomfortable. I think I did my best - but towards the end I was so exhausted I wasn't waking up in the night, etc, and I started staying up later, but then getting up a little later too.
But I couldn't have done anything else, so I suppose I did what I had to.
I also have been wondering why I did it. I suppose it was compassion, but compassion is a funny thing: for animals that are widely heralded as a threat to my own species, when I knew they were going to die, etc. It's really illogical the longer I think about it. It actually seems sort of ill-advised and stupid, in retrospect.
But I guess I did the right thing, because if I could do it over again I would do any different. I couldn't. I'll be a little better prepared the next time this happens...because I know it will again. Animals seem to find me.

After I made that last post I found that Garfunkel had, indeed, died. It was hard. I knew before I opened their box that he was going to be dead, and still I actually cried. I hadn't expected him to have rigor mortis yet, I can't stand that. Also Simon was cuddled up to him and started nudging on him when I opened the box, and that made me very sad. I thought, 'I don't cry at funerals, I'll never cry over a mouse.' And yet I did. Maybe it was something about being in the comfort of my own home.
Also, as I have stated before, I never had expectations of their survival. So I was surprised to be so upset. I see now that I must have grown some very fond ones in these six days. Now I'm feeling a little better, a little accomplished that I kept them alive this long. I just hope it wasn't a painful sort of alive, I hope he wasn't miserable. Garfunkel kept using the potty regularly up to his death, but he had gotten thinner. So had Simon. I don't know what's wrong, I'm only hoping the altered formula could help Simon. But honestly, he's starting to morph into Garfunkel: a curious tendency to curl up on himself, almost in a fetal position, and an unawareness of space. Probably weakness.
I wonder if I should have tried to feed Garfunkel more when I saw he was dying and wasn't eating quite as well. For Simon now I am feeding him every hour. When Garfunkel died I saw that he had two little bottom teeth, so I have given Simon some applesauce and oat flakes soaked in his formula, which he enjoyed. But he's constantly ravenous, something I don't understand. I researched mouse nutritional needs, and found that riboflavin, or vitamin b6, is very important. However, almond milk is notably high in it. I'm also giving them fat and protein, so I can't figure out what's going wrong. I could almost understand Garfunkel's just dying if it wasn't for the weight loss. They've both lost weight, and I only wonder how their mother's milk could have been so different. They eat well. It doesn't seem to me that they should be any thinner.
Now I'm in a quandary. To be honest I'm exhausted. We have places to go tomorrow. But I'm afraid Simon is going to get cold. After my accumulated nights of sleep loss I can no longer wake myself up in the night. Last night I slept like a rock from 2 a.m. until nearly nine o'clock in the morning. I don't know what I'll do, I need to reheat Simon's rice sock every few hours, and feed him. So my master plan seems to be to watch a movie (again - this has been my method of keeping myself awake), and stay up as late as possible? Anyways, that's my best plan. This sounds awful, but if he's going to die, I wish he would hurry up and do it, because I can't bear to think of him suffering and slowly going, or dying cold and alone in the night. I wish he'd die in the day, right after a nice warm feeding.
Every time I rub his belly to stimulate a potty I also have to wipe up his face, because we make such a mess with this formula. I'm afraid it has the worst sicky-sweet smell in the world; and now I imagine it everywhere. I nearly gagged when putting on the cocoa butter lotion I put on every night after my shower, somehow I imagined in smelled similar. Also when it dries it gets stiff, it's revolting. But we just aren't the neatest set, Simon and I.
So, we'll see what happens tomorrow. I feel sorry that I can't help them more. I don't know what I would have done if they had both lived to adulthood - the plan was to release them in the woods, which made me extremely happy until I imagined them haplessly wandering around, waiting for a handout before an owl or something swooped down on them.
Then I thought perhaps I could convince the family that we need two pet mice, but the odds of them really being both males is probably around 50/50 (and given my Kaley luck, probably much slimmer in this case) and I could just imagine waking up one morning to find that Simon was really Simone and she had given birth to a large litter. And then where would we be?
So I try to look on the bright side. But while this all saved me from the keep or release dilemna, I wouldn't mind being in it again.

Simon and Garfunkel

So, here is the evolution of my formula recipe:
Almond milk.
That was the first. I then wrote to a vet on Ask an Expert in desperation, although small animals are not her expertise. I apologized, asking if she knew of any references or websites that might be helpful, that I could research myself. I received a very brief and a rude response: no 'sorry I can't help, good luck,' nothing like that. I'm sure it must have been far too demanding in her busy little online schedule to actually be polite and show a little compassion, even if she couldn't help. Needless to say, I will never use that service again.
However, after some research I was able to find this:

Mouse Milk:

12.1% fat

9.0% Protein

3.2% Lactose

An 8 oz. glass of almond milk is only 4% fat, and 4% protein. So I adapted my formula, so, after looking at some other recipes and suggestions:

1 tbsp. almond milk

.625 ml of egg yolk

A few drops of coconut oil (or a few slivers, if it's solid).

They ate this for two days. The first two days I got up at 3:30 every night to feed them, the third I stayed up till 1:30 to feed them and slept until eight in the morning. I haven't woken up during the night since then, I think all the sleep loss has built up.

Simon has gotten the hang of the syringe, he'll even get a powerful suck on it and stick his tongue down it. Garfunkel wants only to suck on something fleshy, I get a drop on the end of the syringe and then put it up to his mouth. It's hard to tell how much they eat, but Simon eats more.

However, they were both acting very hungry so I adjusted my formula again:

1 tbsp. almond milk

1.25 ml egg yolk

.625 coconut oil (perhaps a little more).

I didn't want to make it too rich, but I certainly don't want to slowly starve them to death. Seeing as I discovered that a mouse had made short work of 1/4 my carefully hoarded caramel chocolate Easter egg, I'm less worried about richness than I was before.

I've had them five nights, this is our sixth day. I never, ever expected them to live when I first adopted them. Then I hoped they would die before the night, because I didn't think there was any feasible way they would live through it. But they did.

Thankfully we're not too busy. I went to a program at the museum the day after we found them, but my wonderful mommy and sister took care of them then.

They stayed warm on their own the first two days, but it's cooled off a little, so I keep a rice sock warm for them and put their box on top of it in a basket. I've used the rice sock every night, as well.

I think it was on the third day that I noticed one of Simon's ears was perkier than the other. Now their ears are popped out and they respond to sounds; they can hear. One of Simon's eyes has opened, although the other shows no intention of doing so, and at their last feeding it looked as if Garfunkel's might open too.

However, at the last feeding I discovered something else about Garfunkel: he is dying. He's sluggish and would barely eat. He just wanted to rest. I shouldn't be upset, considering that I never thought they would live even one day when I first got them. But I am. Also, I feel that if Garfunkel dies his brother's chance of survival are cut almost in half. They snuggle together, stimulate each other. They need each other for warmth and companionship - they give each other somethings I could never offer. I'm convinced the only reason they've survived this long is because there are two of them.

It's almost time for their feeding again. It's been stressful and exhausting, it seems as soon as I finish feeding them it's almost time to do it again. I had plans of releasing them in the woods together. Now I'm not exactly sure what will happen.

This Is Inman.

This is Inman. I meant to write about Inman when I had him, but I didn't. Inman used to live at the fair grounds, but apparently he hitched a ride in my grandparent's truck. When he tried to make a smooth exit at our house, my dad's dog Sadie decided to kill him. So Inman decided I looked like a friendly place to climb up, and to hang onto my back and sit on my shoulder for protection.
Our neighbors have lots of cats, Sadie is rabidly anti-rodent, and there is at least one known snake in the general area. Naturally I couldn't just let Inman out into this fierce unknown world. The way I saw it, he was on an odyssey, and it was my job to help him home. We were planning on going to a pottery exhibit at the fairgrounds the next weekend, and I planned to smuggle Inman, my little wood mouse, back to his home then.
Inman was not at all aggressive. He escaped immediately when I brought him in the house, but I caught him again. He was so tiny and good-natured. Terrified of me, but I put him in our huge aquarium, where he adopted the coconut shell hideout as his abode of choice. I gave him acorns and things and he would retreat there and eat them.
My dog Cami seemed to think I was playing with fire, and thought she should save me from myself by killing Inman. Naturally I had to keep a close eye on him. Then one night, although the lid was in place, Inman was nowhere to be found.
Then I saw a tiny little tail hanging out of the leaves of my potted anita.
I could have scooped Inman up right then, but I was afraid if I might miss, and he might jump down into the joyful jaws of Cami. So instead I grabbed her and locked her out of the room.
The next half hour was very interesting. I tried everything, but Inman successfully evaded capture. I tore my room apart, and finally Inman adopted the trunk my (very heavy) chinchilla cage sits on as his Alamo. He sat under there and wouldn't budge.
I rested a second, eying the trunk darkly and vacillating between threats and encouragement. (He was probably laughing at me, sitting there panting and talking to myself).
Then I pulled myself together and moved the trunk. And moved it and moved it, and swept all the timothy hay and fuller's earth sandbath out from under it - but Inman was nowhere to be found. And I have never seen him since.
I left food out lavishly, set several different kind of traps, involving food bait and buckets, that sort of thing. What you do for a lost pet mouse or hamster. But I never found a trace of him - no droppings, no sounds, nothing.
I read that while wood mice, like any others, can adapt to human habitation, they really do like the outdoors. They aren't often found in homes. So I assumed Inman had headed for the hills, and only hoped he had gotten there.
This was before Thanksgiving. Now, over the holidays there was food left out constantly, we were gone overnight and longer with dishes in the sink, etc. So you'd think if there was any little budding mousy community we would have known it. I had all sorts of food left out in my room, as usual, and it would certainly have been a nice place for a mouse to make itself at home; I was almost never up there. We were very busy.
Yet recently, within the past month, we have become aware that we have a mouse problem. My cat Hobbie has killed three of them. One was definitely a house mouse, not at all like Inman. But Hobbie only has three legs. He's missing his hind leg so he's not the best springer.
So you see, it would be easy to blame the particular quandary on me. Which is exactly what some people seem bent on doing...
Anywho, the other day we were cleaning out a crammed closet. That is, everybody else was, and I was holding Max who was sleeping. Just minding my own business, surfing the net and checking my email. Suddenly I heard garbled screaming and yells coming from upstairs, so sudden and unaccountable that I nearly fell out of my chair.
The words I caught were, "Oh no - Kaley - mice - somebody get Kaley - Kaley! - any more??..."
Needless to say I leapt upstairs, shedding Max somewhere along the way, out to rescue the animal life that had apparently announced its presence in a very unexpected way.
Apparently they were vacuuming, and vacuumed up a nice little mouse nest. And then they saw a baby.
I got the baby, and we all discussed the matter in the typical family way, everyone talking loudly over each other and half of us only listening to ourselves, and arguing about the fate of the little baby.
I cupped it in my hand and started systematically searching through all the shoes and things. I had cleaned them almost all up when I found my mousy friend's sibling, who was a little less alert.
I had just announced my new find when my mother shrieked and took off down the hall with the energy and agility of a whirling dervish.
"The mother, the mother!" She screamed wildly. It was quite comic. (Sorry, mom).
(Later, while was laughing at her, she explained that she is afraid of mice. I had no idea, I've always thought she wasn't afraid of anything).
Then I saw a very brave thing. The little mother mouse, her eyes looking ready to pop out of her head, was steadily making her terrified way towards me over the mound of blankets and other odds and ends we had tossed out. She was so scared, but she was coming, right to my brother and I, because we had her babies and she was trying to get to them, her children. I just stared at her, trying to think. I had entertained some plan of trying to capture them all and release them together.
But I didn't think quick enough. Everyone was talking loudly and moving around, and she scampered under my computer desk. I cleared everyone out and moved it, and she had pulled and Inman, and was gone. We haven't seen her since. But it makes me sad, to remember her looking and coming right towards us, so courageously. It's amazing how animals will sacrifice themselves for their young. Some people aren't even that brave.
So my sister and I secreted the two away. I quickly looked some things up on the computer, having no idea what to do with them. I thought they would die, but I mixed up some sugar water and fed them from a spoon. Later I added a little coconut oil while trying to figure out what would be the best formula. After dispelling certain family members' unfortunate misconceptions about the black plague and things like that, (which was spread by fleas, on rats, not mice - don't hate on the rodents), we tentatively decided that the babies would live with me, since we couldn't do anything else.
I found an article about raising wild mice. The author said she had raised baby mice on coconut milk, but almond will do just as good. So I soaked some almonds and made my own. (I'll tell more about that later).
I was thinking of naming them Poppy and Miles, but then the perfect name came to me: Simon and Garfunkel. They are two little bookends, after all. (If there had been three I could have named them Frank, Sammy, and Dean and had the Rat Pack, but they aren't rats, so that would have been cute but incorrect).
However, I was in fear of our lives yet: dad wasn't home. Mom talked to him on the phone and explained the presence of two new family members, so it wasn't any surprise when he got home. He probably wasn't surprised at all, he knows me so well, although he did ask my mother, initially, if we had flushed them down the toilet, which I find absolutely appalling. I reassure myself that he couldn't have been serious.

So this is the little tartan box they live in. I got a necklace in it several years ago. They're so tiny, so it's quite snug. I punched some air holes in it with a pin.
Here they are in comparison to my finger. They don't look so fuzzy any more, we all together make a soggy mess while they're feeding and they look rather grungy. Their mother would be horrified, I'm sure. But this was from the day I found them. They're unfortunately a little thinner now, too. Especially Garfunkel. He hates the syringe, he wants to suck on a nipple, and of course they don't make mouse-sized nipples. But I think someone should.Here they are, looking so nice and healthy. I estimate them to have been about a week old when I found them. Here their eyes were closed, as were their ears.
So, these are my little darlings. It's a lot of work, they have to be fed every two hours. I bet they'd eat once an hour, but it takes me altogether about a half hour to do their feeding, and all the sterilizing and warming up of formula. I really can't see feeding any oftener.
So, here's a close-up. Hopefully they'll live to adulthood and we can see what a resemblance they bear to their possible ancestor, my old friend Inman.

Birthday

I got the most beautiful camera for my birthday! It's a Nikon, absolutely gorgeous (as you can see), with two zoom lenses--one is quite long-rage, I just want a bird to sit still long enough for me to get a nice close-up!

The clarity of the pictures it takes is absolutely amazing. The blogger posting doesn't even do it justice. I included this picture of Ben--it picks up his beautiful blue eyes in a way no other camera does!

The picture isn't centred, that's my only problem with it.

And of course, Josiah. Once again, it focuses marvelously and picks up vibrant color and detail.

And finally, my true pride and joy: my nature photography!

This is a cicada that Ben found, actually. The detail on this is amazing. The cicada is a very beautiful, intricate insect, and the camera actually picked all of that up.

The sheen on the wings is perfect, especially how it fades from green to peach towards the end, and I love the patterns on its head and back. And of course his expressive little eyes! They remind me of a praying mantis', actually.

A rose of Sharon that has spread from the backyard to the side of the house...

And these beautiful creatures, I believe they're narrow-waisted paper wasps. You can see the uncapped larva in some of the cells. They're building a nest outside our living room window.

This is some sort of polypore shelf fungi I got a picture of today.

This Article is Not for Ophidiophobiacs

or, In Defense of Snakes

Lately, as the weather warms up and our cold-blooded reptile friends come out to bask in the sun and rise above their cold-weather induced state of hibernation, I am reminded again of how many people just hate snakes. Yes, I understand that some people dislike them because they make themselves a nuisance about eating things they shouldn't - poultry, small animals, the songbird chicks you anxiously awaited the hatching of, etc.
However, it seems to me many people are indiscriminately thrown into a state of hysterical blood thirst at the sight of something that even slightly resembles a snake. And since I have appointed myself champion of this widely disliked creature, I've decided to expound on the subject.
I believe this desire in so many people to kill anything that has scales and moves is inspired by terror. Most people are terrified of snakes, and it's easy to see why. From my several stints of working at a mobile petting zoo, I've seen how this indoctrination occurs.
At these events I would usually post myself somewhere with a medium-sized ball python, and wait for people to jump when they suddenly realised the girl was holding a snake. (It's great fun). I must appear so harmless, people would absently meander towards me and not notice I wasn't alone until they were a few feet of away - then came the shock factor. The almost uniform reaction was for the person to: jump out of their skin, or; do a double take, and then jump out of their skin. Some people screamed, and I say 'people' because men did it as often as the women did.
Then, after asking me the usual questions (why are you holding that thing? Doesn't it bite? Has it ever tried to strangle you?) the next thing was to drag over any children in their party and tell them with the greatest of gravity:
"You see that thing? That's a snake. It'll bite you, and you'll die."
The few intrepid children who continued to pooh-pooh these warnings, and pet the snake, usually excited shrill noises of disbelief from the less daring adults. Of course, for every two mothers I'd see who were determined to instill a deadly terror of reptile into their offspring, there was one who would show their children that snakes aren't so bad, and would lead the way in snake-petting.
Of course if it had been a king cobra I was holding, I would have been the fool, and everyone else would have been quite right. But even a ball python at it's largest can't harm a human. Very few snakes can kill a man by constriction, and often the man-eating-snake accounts one reads in the news are contested or proved as hoaxes later.
Most snakes kill their prey by some form of constriction, however. In the Southern states we have only three venomous snakes (to my knowledge): the copperhead, the rattlesnake, and the cottonmouth (also known as the water moccasin).
Of these snakes, I have only encountered a cottonmouth twice: once a baby one, and another time I can't really remember very well. It was a summer or two ago and I only remember messing with it because I wanted to make sure it was a cottonmouth. I do remember, though, that it was extremely hard to get the animal to become aggressive. (I believe I was leaning off a low bridge, and I know I was using a stick). It was sluggish, hence the reason I was able to get it to open its mouth before it got away. (The insides of the mouth is pure white, hence the name). The whole thing is rather blur, although it shouldn't be, since I have a misguided infatuation with messing with venomous snakes.
Last year there were copperheads everywhere, which is unusual. The closest encounter I had with one was when I ran barefoot around a bend in a trail, colliding with the snake, which was coming down the trail.
This gave me a good chance to observe what most people take to be threatening behavior in snakes: the copperhead pulled it's head back close to it's body and either let out a gasp of air or breathed sharply in - it didn't really sound like a hiss, although I guess that's what most people would call it.
The snake actually retreated - even though I'd almost stepped on him, and my foot had really, really been in his face. They usually do try to get away first. This is a logical decision on the part of the snake, a survival instinct. Imagine yourself a creature without arms or legs. As a human, if somebody hits you (or steps on you, kicks you, stomps you, attacks you with a hoe, what have you), you can use an arm to shield yourself, fight back, or both. A creature who can only defend itself by putting it's head in the line of fire will usually choose retreat. It's a matter of self-preservation.
Which is what this venomous snake tried to do. He had the power to bite, and it's not as if the animal doesn't know it. So I retreated, too, but my aunt's dog did not. I saw him leaping around and all over the frantic snake, who still just wanted to leave. I wasn't exactly attempting to tear the dog away, since I knew with my luck I'd probably be the one who got bitten and end up dying on my way back to the house or something. So I screamed for the dog until he was bored of tormenting the snake and came back.
The copperhead had not bitten him. It could have if it had wanted to, he's a big target, and he definitely wasn't trying to elude the reptile. I say I absolutely would have bitten him, if I'd been the snake, but perhaps they really were made to prefer going on their way without making enemies.
I've never seen a rattlesnake in the wild, although I've heard they're malicious creatures thirsty for the blood of man. However, I've also heard this about the copperhead and my (favorite, non-venomous) native snake, the black ratsnake. So I don't put much faith in the statement's veracity.
Black ratsnakes are often referred to simply as blacksnakes, but I usually call them ratsnakes, hoping to slyly endear them to the rat-fearing public, which seems to despise rodents almost as much as is does reptiles. Yes, ratsnakes eat rodents, and also other venomous snakes. (This fact usually makes people warm up to them a lot more). They're usually plain black with a white belly, but oftentimes I'll find one with a lovely checkerboard pattern on their underside, and I usually have to catch it. Here I have some examples:
Here is a marvelous picture of a healthy adult, in what I would interpret as a mildly harassed or surprised posture. (I've deduced it might be the result of a camera stuck in his face :D) Ratsnakes do resemble kingsnakes, but they are different. Kingsnakes are more of a yellow where the ratsnake would be white, and they aren't as common, in my experience.








Here is a beautiful little juvenile ratsnake, never to be confused with the Southern copperhead, which looks vastly different:








This picture truly doesn't do the snake justice. However, the color and pattern of the snake is very vivid, and almost unmistakable. If you aren't quite sure, it's probably not a copperhead. I have seen some copperheads from other states, such as Florida, that look less vibrant - it could have to do with diet. But North Carolina copperheads are copper in every way! It's a very beautiful snake, but its bite is unpleasant. The good thing is, bites usually occur when people are trying to kill or catch the snake.

Copperhead young, which are just as poisonous as their adult counterparts, can be easily distinguished by their yellow tails.
Copperheads can, and do, sometimes take to the water, but usually for very specific purposes. It isn't their optimum element so they will try to avoid it. There are some brown water snakes that faintly resemble copperheads - the imitation is a natural defense. But the chances of encountering a copperhead in the water are very slim, and water snakes themselves are very shy and elusive.
I've always given water snakes a wide berth, for reasons I'm not quite sure of, so I can't say much about them, except that they seem to come in amazing diversity. They're usually a brown color, but may be solid or patterned, and come in many different shades. Some species, such as the Northern water snake, share winter dens with black snakes and copperheads. (This seems to be the one time that they call a truce and refrain from eating one another).

One way to tell if a snake is venomous is to look at its eyes - non-poisonous snakes have very round or oval eyes, whereas poisonous snakes have a flattening at the top which results in an "angry" or "evil" eye. Most people are unanimous in their desire to never get close enough to a snake to check out its eyes, however. And this trick only works on North American snakes.
So, while I understand a dislike of pet or livestock eating snakes, and also agree with the necessity of removing venomous snakes from, say, children's' play areas, otherwise I've found them to be a rather non-confrontational, laid-back sort of animal. I've only been bitten twice, both times intentionally, and I have not died. (I just wanted to see what it felt like. It's like being poked with a needle).
All snakes have a fascinating internal organ arrangement. Their hearts are able to move around, as a protective measure for when the snake is swallowing large meals. This feature can make the snake troublesome to evolutionists, since snakes would have needed these manoeuvrable hearts instantaneously, to prevent them from suffering heart damage every time they eat a meal.
Their left lung is borderline non-functional and sometimes not present at all, owing to the elongated, slim shape of a snake. They don't have a colenary bladder or lymph nodes. They aren't slimy or slippery - many people are very surprised to find them smooth, very dry, and sleek. They don't have eyelids or external ears, which distinguished them from legless lizards.

They move around quickly and capably, most using something called terrestrial lateral undulation - they move right and left, in that well-known 'S' mode, using their amazing muscles. If you feel the side of a fit snake it will be as hard as a bone, because the muscle is so strong and powerful.
Snakes practically never get sick, but when cut or injured they usually take a while to heal. And while they don't have the cerebral capacity for "human" emotions, such as love or anxiety, they are still very intelligent, cunning creatures, able to adapt amazingly and instantaneously to life in or out of the wild.
Overall the snake is an amazing creature. It survives without arms, legs, claws, or teeth. The ones that do have venom use it more often to kill or paralyze their food, than in self-defense. When you really think about it it's amazing that snakes are still around, but they are - perhaps even protected, somewhat, by the awe people seem to hold them in.

However, a word of comfort for those who are still afraid of snakes: it has at least been proven that fictional characters with this affliction can function in a reptile-infested world: Indiana Jones was a ophidiophobiac. ;-)