The call came around eleven-thirty. The man apologizing for calling on a Sunday. But he read the article in the paper, and figured I might be the one to call.

They've got a rattlesnake in their backyard.

Ooookay.

Normally he would take the snake out and let it loose on his own, but this one's gotten itself tangled up in the netting they use to protect their flowers.

He wants to make sure I'm not going to hurt the snake. Fourteen-some years ago they called the town police for a rattler in their driveway, and apparently the cops caught it alive, then took it out on the prairie to use for target practice.

You can tell it still bothers him. Which is cool, 'cause I like snakes, too.

His son is waiting on their porch when I pull up, one of the last houses at the northern edge of town. Built right next to the rocky hills.

Great place to live if you like snakes in your yard. The man asks if I've got a pole or something to hold the snake with.

I raise a gloved hand. Just this.

He thinks I'm kidding.

He leads me back into their perfectly manicured backyard. Wife, son, daughter and mother-in-law in tow. "Hope you don't mind an audience," the wife asks.

"We don't have this in Ohio," the mother-in-law explains.

Like me and the snake are some kind of western floor show.

But they literally do sit down in the chairs on the patio, about ten yards away, and watch.

Sunday luncheon entertainment, I guess.

The rattler is not as small as he claimed.

But it is certainly entangled.

Problems is, not enough of the snake is caught in the netting. A good 20cm of the front end are free to move.

The dangerous end.

He sets some wood blocks under the snake, and I use a handy gardening trowel to pin down the head. And immediately the man is leaning in with scissors to cut the snake free.

Just a minute, let me get a grip here...

I reach in to grab the rattler right behind the head. And pull it out from under the trowel.

"Ooooh. I didn't know you were going to do it like thisssss..." he stutters. Apparently none to happy to have his welfare literally in my hand. But he leans in again and snips away. And in less than a minute, the snake is free.

And in my hand. But still with a wad of that horrid black nylon netting cutting into its sides.

I slip my camera off my shoulder and, turning to the audience, tell them there is a fee for the show. They have to take pictures.

The man has moved off, but his wife asks "Don't you want to cut that off now, while you've got help?"

The look he threw her was less than kind. But he comes back, and we carefully snip every strand off the snake.

No easy task, since many were twisted down underneath its scales.

And soon, it is an ordinary rattlesnake.

Pissed off, of course. The rattles buzzing freely now. I counted eleven, a pretty snake, but not that young.

And into the bucket it goes.

A couple miles from town, I find a large rock in the middle of the sage, and dump out my unhappy guest.

Who does not tarry in the hot sun for even one second, quickly finding a hole beneath the rock.

Giving me a final wave of the tail as it slides from view.