Perry the Python

In this article, I’ll describe how my beloved Royal Python, Perry — one of my earliest rescues — came into my life and quietly dismantled almost everything I thought I knew about the species, Python regius.

I’ve kept Royal Pythons for more than 20 years. My first was John — a beautiful animal acquired long before morphs became currency. He was what we’d now call a “normal”; in reality, he looked exactly as nature intended. Rich tans, deep browns and blacks, contrasted with a clean cream and white belly. A stunning animal to behold.

But looking back, I wasn’t keeping him well.

At the time, I thought I was doing everything correctly. No UV lighting. A heat mat. A 48 × 18 × 18" enclosure. Two hides, a water bowl, and little else. No opportunity to climb, explore, choose elevation, or express much beyond the most basic behaviours.

John survived.

But survival and thriving are not the same thing.

Looking back now, what I provided wasn’t enrichment — it was, in many ways, solitary confinement. And it would take meeting Perry to realise just how much I still had to learn.

Perry came to me through the RSPCA and, to this day, I have never seen an animal of any species in such a state of malnutrition.

He had the appearance of a Toblerone bar — almost perfectly triangular in cross-section. His ribs and spine were clearly visible, and even the pelvic spurs and musculature above the tail stood out sharply. He was in desperately poor condition.

The attending inspector explained that Perry had been assessed and that there were no obvious underlying health concerns — that he likely just needed feeding after missing meals for a period of time.

I remember laughing — not out of disrespect, but disbelief.

I said that this particular animal hadn’t missed a couple of meals. In my view, looking at his body condition, this had been going on for months.

Now, Perry being Perry, he was stubborn from day one.

Despite his condition, he flatly refused food for another four weeks. I tried everything I knew, and nothing tempted him.

By this point, I had learned a great deal since keeping John — bless him — and my husbandry had improved considerably.

Perry was introduced into a 3 ft long × 3 ft tall × 2 ft deep enclosure with full-spectrum UV and overhead heating. Multiple hides were positioned at different elevations, with a range of thermal and humidity microclimates built into the enclosure. Hidden basking opportunities allowed him to access both heat and UV while remaining secure.

On paper, I’d done everything differently and everything was as optimal as I could make it.

So where had I gone wrong this time?

At this point, I realised I knew almost nothing about Perry’s previous life.

I didn’t know where he had come from. I didn’t know what his enclosure looked like, what temperatures he’d experienced, what his last meal had been, when he had last shed, or what routine — if any — had existed before rescue.

I was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Perry himself is a very handsome boy (and, as it turns out later, a bit of a ladies’ man…).

I believe he may be a Desert Ghost morph. Morphs are not my area of expertise — the world of Royal Python genetics remains a confusing rabbit hole to me — but I’m fortunate to know some very experienced breeders. Friends of mine, particularly Royal Noodles (love ya, Paul), have tentatively identified Perry as a Desert Ghost.

That conversation led me to a different question.

Many breeders I know use rack systems for at least some of their animals. Husbandry is rarely black and white, and although rack systems aren’t something I generally use outside of temporarily raising or monitoring groups of hatchlings, I understand their practical application — particularly for keepers managing large collections.

Then a thought occurred to me.

What if Perry had previously lived in a rack system?

If that was his normal, perhaps my carefully designed enclosure — larger, brighter, richer, more complex — wasn’t reassuring.

Perhaps it was overwhelming.

At that point, it felt worth the proverbial shot.

I prepared a RUB setup and moved Perry across. The goal wasn’t to abandon everything I had learned about enriched environments — it was to provide a temporary environment that prioritised security and familiarity.

Then I left him alone for seven days.

My thinking was based on a behavioural tendency commonly discussed in Royal Pythons: thigmotaxis — the tendency to seek contact with surrounding surfaces and feel physically enclosed.

In simple terms: Royal Pythons often seem to prefer spaces where they can wedge in, coil up, and feel secure on multiple sides.

Maybe Perry didn’t need more.

Maybe he needed less.

Seven days passed....

At this point, I decided to load the dice in my favour.

I defrosted a 30 gram multimammate for Perry.

Multimammates (Mastomys spp.) have become a surprisingly debated topic in Royal Python husbandry over recent years. Some field observations and discussions from herpetologists working within the natural range of Python regius have questioned how dominant multimammates really are within the species’ natural diet, while historical literature and prey studies regularly identify them as prey items.

The current picture appears more nuanced than captive discussions sometimes suggest.

Multimammates do appear to form part of the natural diet of wild Royal Pythons across areas of West Africa, but probably not in the exclusive way they’re sometimes portrayed. Royal Pythons seem better described as opportunistic ambush predators — taking advantage of locally available prey rather than specialising on a single species.

That makes ecological sense.

Royal Pythons frequently exploit rodent burrows, and multimammates happen to be among the more abundant small mammals in many areas of their range.

But scientific context aside, my reasoning here was practical.

Over the years, I’ve personally found that multimammates can sometimes tempt reluctant feeders in a way standard feeder rodents do not. Whether that’s scent profile, prey recognition, or simply individual preference, I couldn’t say with certainty — but I’ve seen enough examples to keep the option in my toolkit.

And Perry was rapidly becoming an animal that demanded I use every tool I had.

So, I offered the multimammate and waited.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Perry delivered the most polite and slow-moving feeding response I’ve ever seen from any snake — including Western Hognoses, which aren’t exactly famous for decisive strikes.

He eased forward, struck the multimammate cleanly on the head, wrapped a loose coil around it, and proceeded to constrict the already-defrosted rodent with complete conviction until he was satisfied it was thoroughly dispatched.

Then he swallowed.

And I’ll admit it — there may have been a small tear.

The following week, Perry was moved back into his 3 × 2 × 3 enclosure.

This time, everything changed.

He began basking regularly. He climbed. He explored. He started doing all the things captive Royal Pythons are often said not to do.

Food size gradually increased. His palate broadened. Weight gain was slow, controlled, and consistent, and muscle tone slowly returned.

From that point onwards, I was invested.

Not just in getting Perry healthy, but in understanding him — his recovery, his development, and his overall wellbeing.

Eventually, Perry came home and now lives with Penny and me to this day.

What Perry taught me wasn’t that rack systems are better.

He didn’t teach me that multimammates are magic.

He didn’t prove that one husbandry method is universally correct.

What Perry taught me was something much less comfortable:

I don’t know everything.

There is always more to learn.

Animals don’t read care sheets.

And in herpetoculture, very little is ever as straightforward as we want it to be.