Theodore the Boa

I knew boas. Or at least, I thought I did.

The common Boa constrictor is almost mythical in reptile keeping circles. Enormous. Powerful. Constantly hungry. A length of solid muscle capable of squeezing through impossibly small spaces and, depending on who you ask, always one step away from reminding you exactly where you sit in the food chain.

Their care itself is often presented as relatively straightforward.

Think: large, slightly damper Royal Python.

I’d worked with boas for years. Hatchlings. Adolescents. Sub-adults. Adults.

I knew their body language, I knew their feeding responses, I knew what to expect.

Or at least, I thought I did.

Until the day Theodore was unceremoniously dumped on my doorstep.

I received a phone call early that morning, a boa had been found in an abandoned flat locally.

My first thought? Delightful.

I expected an adolescent animal at worst — perhaps an underweight snake in an undersized enclosure that needed a clean-up and a reset.

What I didn’t expect was a six-foot boa.

Half starved.

Cut almost to the bone.

And of a locality or background I couldn’t immediately identify.

He had been housed in a three-foot vivarium that had effectively begun to rot beneath him from accumulated faeces and urates. His skin was covered in dried waste and scabbing and more concerningly, he had very little muscular control through his lower third.

My initial assessment didn’t take long.

This wasn’t a “monitor and see” situation.

With open wounds and a threat of severe contamination, immediate supportive care and veterinary attention became the priority.

He was cleaned; his wounds were assessed and managed appropriately.

The worst injury ultimately required further treatment.

And through all of it—

I didn’t stop to think about what kind of snake I was handling.

Not because I was fearless. Quite the opposite.

Because in situations like that, my brain tends to become very simple.

• Stop the emergency.
• Then think.

Penny will tell you it’s one of my better qualities. I maintain it’s the reason I own so many scars.

But afterwards, something occurred to me.

According to everything I thought I knew about boas — a wounded, starving, stressed animal should have been defensive. This animal should have struck. He should have pushed back.

He should have reminded me exactly why people respect large constrictors.

But Theodore didn’t.

Once I’d settled Theodore into sterile temporary accommodation, I finally sat down, indulged one of my many vices, and just… thought.

A six-foot adult boa constrictor — of any locality — under that level of stress and carrying that degree of injury should, in my mind, have been actively defending himself.

Particularly considering what had just happened.

Cleaning open wounds.

Manipulating damaged tissue.

Providing treatment.

None of that should have been comfortable.

At one point Penny had to help restrain him while I worked and I distinctly remember his big old head resting on my shoulder.

Then I felt his tongue flick against my ear.

It was oddly surreal.

One of those moments that should probably have registered emotionally at the time.

But it didn’t. Not then.

During emergencies I seem to become very simple.

• Work first.
• Think later.

Instead, my brain starts collecting details.

A subtle difference in scale texture. An old, healed rib. Damaged scutes. A protruding spine. A healed scar above the left eye.

It catalogues everything and stores it somewhere inaccessible.

Then, once the emergency is over—

it gives it all back.

Usually in bright white letters across the inside of my head.

And as I replayed Theodore in my mind, one thing became increasingly obvious. This snake had been through things. None of them good. The physical damage wasn’t limited to the fresh injuries. There were old wounds, healed wounds and new ones still ragged around the edges.

The prolonged lack of nutrition was obvious too and, at the time, I suspected that was contributing to the muscular weakness through his lower third.

But what I kept returning to wasn’t the damage.

It was the response.

Or rather—

the lack of one.

So what do you do with a six-foot rescue boa carrying so much damage he looked like an Igor from a Discworld novel?

After giving Theodore time to settle, I decided my first real assessment needed to be feeding response.

Would he feed?

And if he did - how?

Snakes in poor body condition present an awkward balancing act.

• You want nutrition.
• You want recovery.

But you also have to respect that severely compromised animals may not be ready to process aggressive feeding schedules. Too much, too quickly can create its own problems.

I wanted steady improvement, not metabolic chaos.

Under more typical circumstances, an underweight boa might receive carefully managed meals designed to encourage gradual weight gain while avoiding unnecessary physiological stress.

But Theodore wasn’t a typical circumstance.

A larger meal felt like asking too much from a body that already seemed exhausted.

So, I made a compromise. My working approach was smaller meals delivered more frequently.

Rather than pushing for rapid weight gain, I wanted manageable nutritional input and the opportunity to monitor his response closely between feeds.

I also supported feeding with additional nutritional considerations aimed at helping overall recovery and tissue repair.

Not because I thought supplements were magic. Not because I was trying to accelerate the process.

Simply because Theodore had very clearly been running on empty for a long time.

Before I worried about muscle.

Before I worried about body condition.

Before I worried about what species or locality, he actually was—

I needed to answer one question.

Did Theodore still want to eat?

Rat defrosted, warmed thoroughly and prepared, whether Theodore’s heat pits were functioning normally at that point, I honestly had no idea.

Longest feeding tongs I owned in hand - off we went.

I opened the enclosure door carefully and presented the rat and quietly, somewhere in the back of my mind—

I wanted an aggressive strike.

Not because I wanted Theodore stressed. Not because I wanted to prove myself right.

But because some stubborn little part of me still wanted the stereotype confirmed.

Big boa. Bad history. Large meal.

There should have been drama.

Instead—

Theodore took his meal slowly. Deliberately. Almost gently.

But he took it. And once he committed - he absolutely demolished it.

That was enough. Recovery could begin and recovery came. Albeit slowly.

• Weekly weigh-ins.
• Carefully structured feeding.
• Monitoring.
• Supportive rehabilitation.
• Hydrotherapy and physiotherapy aimed at encouraging strength and movement.
• Faecal checks.
• Hydration.
• Time.
• And handling.

It was a long old road, but this is where everything changed.

Not for Theodore.

For me.

Because somewhere along the way I realised my understanding of boas had become lazy.

Not wrong—

just simplified.

I’d unconsciously reduced an entire group of animals into expectations.

• Large.
• Food motivated.
• Defensive.
• Predictable.

And Theodore quietly and patiently ignored every one of them.

That doesn’t mean all boas are misunderstood.

It doesn’t mean they’re all gentle.

But it reminded me that every animal is an individual before it is a stereotype.

Theodore’s name came later. Shortly after taking him in, two more boas arrived.

One healthy but permanently startled became Simon. The other was an absolute pest — permanently attached and always climbing over everything — and became Alvin.

I still maintain Alvin, Simon and Theodore must have eaten the chipmunks.

Simon and Alvin eventually moved on into excellent homes.

Theodore stayed.

And that particular story is still being written. Today Theodore works as an ambassador animal.

He helps show people that boas aren’t crazed sociopaths waiting for an excuse.

Even carrying old scars and healed injuries - he still hasn’t changed.

He still takes his food politely.

Still explores calmly.

Still doesn’t meet uncertainty with aggression.

Now, Theodore didn’t change my mind about boas.

But he did reinforce something I should already have known.

No matter the species.

No matter the reputation.

No matter what came before.

Every animal is an individual.