Last week was a weird week for me in the animal department. It started Tuesday when I received a slightly frantic call from my wife. She was speaking the way she does when our kids are nearby, and she doesn't want them to hear what she's about to say.

"Are you close to home?"

"Yes," I answered, slightly annoyed my sports radio was being interrupted, and I knew that kind of question usually meant I was going to have to do one of several things the minute I walked in the door: Discipline one or all of my children, liberate some kind of large bug from the kitchen floor, fix some appliance (or, more accurately, confirm the need for a repairman), or clean something that involved some kind of bodily function from one of the dogs. Basically, that question was never followed by, "Because I just can't wait to see you - you handsome

thing!" Still, my wife managed

to surprise me.

She continued in a subdued and secretive tone, "I think one of the dogs may have killed a rabbit in the backyard."

By one of the dogs, she meant that Daisy, our Cocker Spaniel, had killed this poor bunny. Wags, our Bassett Hound, probably slept through the entire horrific event.

Anyway, I was greeted at the door by my slightly disgusted wife, a clueless hound dog, three children who had obviously overheard their mother and couldn't wait to show me Daisy's latest conquest, and one very proud, sadistic Cocker Spaniel. I walked cautiously out to our backyard with shovel in- hand to see the carnage.

At the risk of being too graphic, let's just say Daisy had not only given herself a pair of lucky rabbit's feet, but a few other parts as well. I fought back the gag reflex to fix that mess.

The very next day we lost one of our own. My youngest daughter's Guinea pig, Sniffy Doug, went peacefully in his sleep while we were away. The little guy had been struggling for a few days, and we had prayed for his recovery, but it was not to be. I did not fight a gag reflex as we buried Sniffy Doug, but the entire family fought back tears as my daughter said her goodbyes.

My wife called me on my way home the day after Sniffy Doug's funeral. I asked her, "We don't have any fresh kills in the backyard… do we?"

"Nope!" she answered.

"Wags, Daisy, Rolly the hermit crab?"

"Everybody's fine…come on home," my wife reassured me.

And so I went home…relieved to have some normalcy. But normalcy was not to be. As I exited my car, there curled up in the corner of the garage was a snake. He wasn't very big, but does that really matter?

Are you kidding me???

I'm no Crocodile Hunter or Bear Grylls so I couldn't just bare hand the thing. I grabbed a rake and pinned him to the ground a bit too enthusiastically and, to make a long story short, this man- eating cobra with two- foot fangs (as it will come to be known) joined the rabbit parts in the woods behind my house.

I've killed snakes before, and I know pets don't live forever. Heck, I've lived in a house with flying squirrels, but this past week was weird.