Critter Keeper

06/20/2025

06/17/2025

I love changing things up a bit. This afternoon, I’ll be wearing the same Critter Keeper uniform that I wore this morning. Casual and practical khaki.

But this afternoon, I’ll be accessorizing with iguana p**p that was added to my ensemble during the morning program.

06/17/2025

I’m getting a lot of messages asking where the critters and I will be this summer, so I’m posting the library schedule again.

In reading comments from folks expressing disappointment that I’m not in Spartanburg or Greenville counties again this year, a couple of rather reputable sources tell me that in Spartanburg County’s case, it revolves around some budgetary constraints due to expansion and new construction.

As far as Greenville goes, I dunno. I’ve heard rumors, but I honestly don’t know. All I know is, I’ve got a pretty good summer reading program performance this year, and I can draw a crowd. Hope to see you at one of the programs.

06/08/2025

This handsome young man is Bud. Bud is his real name. I know, because I asked. Any resemblance to the character of Dennis the Menace is purely coincidental.

Bud is quite the character. If you don’t believe me, ask any of the adult leaders at the Bible School I visited this afternoon. They were pretty easy to pick out; they were the TIRED grownups who looked shell-shocked after spending most of the day with Bud. By the time I got there, Bud was in the coveted seat next to the pastor’s wife.

I wasn’t fully aware of the family dynamics with regard to Bud, so after my program, I had innocently asked the pastor’s wife if Bud was hers.

I might be able to give a direct quote: “No, no, no. Absolutely not. Heavens, no.”

Bud was animated, active, full of questions, had a story for everything, and couldn’t sit still. I was enjoying my interaction with him. This kid was a hoot.

So Bud was the first kid I selected to help bring Julius out. I did this for several reasons: I sensed that the pastor’s wife needed a break; it seemed to be the gentlemanly thing to do; and I’d be able to keep an eye on Bud while a twelve-foot python was out.

After suggesting to Bud that, in the future, he refrain from drinking excessive coffee before Bible School, I set about selecting other volunteers to help with the big snake.

My next volunteer was a girl, who looked to be several years older than Bud. As she made her wa-

“That’s my sister,” Bud interrupted.

“Oh, wow,” I said, “Is that right?”Then to the girl: “You know Bud then, right?”

She rolled her eyes slightly, and confessed, “Yes, Bud is my sibling.”

Funny way to put it, but okay.

So I have my participants lined up, and I’m starting my schtick with preparing to bring Julius out…

And I feel two small arms slip around my waist, and I’m now being hugged by Bud.

Time stopped for me as I felt this ornery but lovable little boy embrace me. I felt his head rest against my side. Instinctively, my hand patted his back.

I began to wonder if Bud had some type of emotional turmoil. Sometimes, a kid just needs to know someone cares.

Bud pulled his head away slightly and looked up at me. He whispered, “Critter Keeper?”

“Yes, Bud?” I replied quietly.

“Will you be my best friend?

The room was silent. I gave Bud’s back another gentle pat and replied softly, “Yes, Bud. I’ll be your best friend.”

That would have been quite the touching moment, heart-warming as it was, had Bud not suddenly dropped the hug and exclaimed, “YES! I have THREE best friends now!”

****

That was about 10 hours ago. I’m in a hotel on the outskirts of Atlanta, and I’m still wondering how badly I got played this afternoon.

It’ll take more than that to break up our friendship though.

If we’re friends.

I think we’re friends.

I really don’t know.

06/06/2025

Folks, I need a favor.

Would you tell your kids that no, they can’t have my job?

I’ve never felt so threatened with having my livelihood taken away as I have with Emerson this evening.

After being let in the sanctuary for a Vacation Bible School by the pastor, Emerson was the second or third person I met.

An hour before showtime, Emerson came through the church. She didn’t introduce herself, she just walked right up to me, and very matter-of-factly informed me that, “I’m going to hold everything you have. A tarantula. A snake. I’m going to hold it.”

It’s pretty hard for me to tell a precocious 4-year-old future beauty queen to “cool your jets,” but I did just that in the gentlest way possible.

Emerson would not be deterred.

I’m not even sure how it happened. One minute, I’m mugging around with Mr. Beasley, the bearded dragon, and the next, I’m looking high and low for Mr. Beasley. Where’s my lizard? Where’s EMERSON?

So please tell your kids that they can’t have my job.

I love my job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

06/02/2025

Eight days. It might be a personal record.

But I’m back from vacation. It’s a new day, and this day is young.

05/25/2025

Critter Keeper (and our admin) will be unplugged and off the grid next week. Please be patient, as we’ll catch up on all calls, messages, and online inquiries at the beginning of June.

Thanks for your patience and understanding!

05/16/2025

I was reminiscing about my year in fifth grade today, and the time I spent at Churchill Elementary School in my hometown of Baker City, Oregon. Some of my former classmates will remember that school, and its principal at the time, Mr. Palumbo.

I liked Mr. Palumbo. He seemed like a great guy, and he always reminded me of the horror film actor Vincent Price. He had the lanky frame and the little moustache. Anyway, some of my fondest memories of Mr. Palumbo was when he tried to teach some of us how to play the violin. I was diligent in scratching out the melodies, and to this day, one of my biggest regrets from my school years is not continuing violin. Even now, I think sometimes about getting some lessons, because I love violin and fiddle music.

Anyway, as the principal, any administration of corporal punishment in the school fell to Mr. Palumbo.

On the wall in Mr. Palumbo’s office hung a wooden paddle. This paddle was on display like a piece of medieval weaponry. Holes were drilled through it, and past recipients of its strikes had scrawled their names on the sides and edges. I’m reasonably confident if that paddle is still around, my name is on it - in ink or permanent marker.

This may surprise you, but I was a little ornery in my younger days. I know; it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.

I remember the crime. Three of us got caught having a snowball fight on the playground. It was great fun, until we found ourselves waiting on the bench outside Mr. Palumbo’s office. That was actually the worst part, because Mr. Palumbo, busy man that he was, always made sure that kids waiting for the “butt-blistering,” as we called it, had to wait on the bench in the hallway long enough for every person in the school to walk by at least twice. Knowing looks and quiet snickers from the teachers and students were part of the punishment, it seemed.

Then, a stern talking-to from Mr. Palumbo, and a quick three strikes to the buttocks with the aforementioned paddle, and it was over. Nobody cried, nobody complained, and afterwards, we inked our names onto the vaunted butt-blisterer. It was a rite of passage. Mr. Palumbo did his job, we did ours, and we didn’t throw snowballs on the playground anymore.

Corporal punishment is a thing of the past in schools, and I’m okay with that, although I have met some good candidates who would likely benefit from the procedure.

But here I am, almost six decades later, and I’m reminded of those days almost anytime I visit an elementary school.

As the kids come in, I allow them to pet Mr. Beasley, my bearded dragon. I tell them to use two fingers. “Not one finger; we don’t want you to poke Mr. Beasley. Not all of your fingers; we don’t want you to grab Mr. Beasley. But if you take two fingers, run them down his back, it’ll feel just like your dad’s face on a Saturday morning when he doesn’t shave.”

Scores of kids will file by, until finally, an unsuspecting teacher. And I’ll wait until her fingers are just about to touch Mr. Beasley, and then…

I suddenly lift Mr. Beasley a couple of inches while making a high-pitched “WHOOP” sound.

Her hand jerks back, Sometimes, there’s a scream. And nine times out of ten…

…The teacher hauls off and slaps me.

Usually, it’s on the shoulder.

No harm, no foul. We laugh.

But it always reminds me, since I’ve been struck by an authority figure, that corporal punishment is alive and well in our schools.

And I, the Critter Keeper, am incorrigible.

05/15/2025

Thank you, Karen. Until I find a more suitable place to display the clay snake you made for me, this’ll do.

05/12/2025

This might come as a shock to some of you, but I don’t tell everybody everything that happens in the Critter Cabin. Some of those adventures, I keep to myself.

Some would embarrass me.

Some would cause you to question my competence as a Critter Keeper.

And others, I have difficulty putting adequately into words. For me, that’s saying something.

So sometimes, what happens in the Critter Cabin, STAYS in the Critter Cabin.

Like when that ball python that I rescued from a garbage can in 40 degree weather several months ago turned up missing, I didn’t say anything at the time. I was embarrassed.

You’ve likely heard me say that “snakes are escape artists,” so why would I be embarrassed?

Because it was the second time in three days that Jasmine had escaped. The first time, I knew right where she’d be. And there she was. The second time she escaped, she wasn’t there.

Or there. Or even there.

I tore the Critter Cabin apart looking for Jasmine, and expanded the search out into my garage.

Nothing.

After a couple of days of searches, I decided to just watch closely for her as I was working out there, and finally, just moved her to the STUESP list. That’s an exclusive Critter Keeper acronym indicating that “She’ll Turn Up Eventually at Some Point.”

I left her vacant enclosure right where it was, and that reminded me to keep an eyeball peeled for her.

It was about the middle of March when she escaped. I rescued her on 17 February, quarantined her for over a week, and fed her twice before she ran away, presumably to join a different circus.

Fast forward to last night. Rain had moved in, and we had finished our Mother’s Day festivities. I was enjoying what little day off was left, when my wife came into the room. She started to say something, but she froze, her eyes locked on something at ground level behind me. Then, very calmly, she said, “You’re not going to believe this. Look.”

I got out of the chair, expecting to see an opossum or raccoon on the deck.

It was a snake, trying desperately to crawl up the glass of the back door.

“Is that one of yours?”

“No,” I replied, noting the almost white belly. “Looks like a black snake.” Then I turned on the deck light and opened the door, and immediately recognized it as Jasmine, who apparently had had enough of the cool rain, unceremoniously ending her two-month-long adventure.

“I stand corrected,” I told my wife, “She is mine.”

I went immediately to the Critter Cabin with Jasmine in my hand. I had just the escape-proof enclosure to put her in. I was already considering changing her name from “Jasmine”- a name I’ve used for ball pythons for almost 40 years - to something more fitting, like “Harrietta,” as in “Harrietta Houdini.” I was also trying to avoid being peppered with questions on why it had never come up in conversations over the past couple of months that Harrietta was missing. I didn’t want to tell my wife that sometimes, what happens in the Critter Cabin, stays in the Critter Cabin.

That would have been low hanging fruit for her, because I can tell you exactly what she would have said:

“If it had stayed in the Critter Cabin, it couldn’t very well have been trying to get in through the back door, would it?”

She would have had a point.