Bruce.
It’s a solid name. Sounds very Australian, but in reality, he’s named after one of my favourite Marvel characters — Bruce Banner, better known in some circles as The Hulk; a man best known for exceptional scientific achievement and catastrophically poor anger management.
He’s not much into science so that should give you some indication of Bruce’s general temperament.
Now, I’ve worked with enough reptiles over the years to know when one is planning something. You start noticing it after a while. A look. A posture. A level of eye contact that feels just a little too deliberate.
Bruce has that look.
There’s something in his eyes that suggests barely contained violence sitting just beneath the surface, quietly scrabbling for an excuse to emerge.
I’m making him sound like a monster. He isn’t. I promise. Bruce is actually a lovely boy.
He’s just also deeply opinionated and appears to believe that every interaction is either a feeding opportunity, a personal challenge or a personal insult.
If somebody is going to take a swing at me on any particular day - it’s undoubtedly going to be Bruce.
On this particular day, I was building up photos for our library. Interesting angles, a couple against the naturalistic backgrounds, some shots of the animals doing their animal thing — y’know, photographic stuff.
Now Bruce, the little sociopath, has always been a bit camera shy and I happened to catch him napping.
Literally. If he could, he’d be snoring.
He was tucked up with just his little head poking out of his underground “nest” and, for perhaps the first and only time in his life, looked almost angelic.
Angelicism, however, was not on today’s to-do list.
The second I opened the enclosure door, Bruce’s head snapped up.
Instantly alert.
Tongue going.
Eyes locked.
And I’m sure I saw a tiny glint in there somewhere. (That was almost certainly just the UV reflecting off his eye. Probably.)
He looked at me - I looked at him.
He seemed… relaxed.
Which immediately made me suspicious.
Yes, he was awake and tongue flicking in my direction, but I had no food and I certainly didn’t smell like food. At this point in our relationship, I had developed a very healthy respect for Bruce, and, in return, I liked to imagine he had developed at least a little respect for me.
Historically, he had shown absolutely no evidence of this.
Repeatedly.
But today felt different.
Less “I KILL YOU.”
More… curious.
That should have worried me more than it did.
But, optimistic me thought - nah, it’ll be fine. He’s probably just seeing what I’m doing.
I took out my phone — a wonderfully tough iPhone 13 in a handy-dandy animal-proof case.
Good job, too.
I swear I saw the little bugger smile.
Fast as lightning. Like a shot. Like a bat out of hell. Like a… very motivated bullsnake with a plan.
Bruce struck.
He grabbed the offending mobile device and dragged it back into the vivarium with the confidence of something that had absolutely no intention of negotiating.
Then he stopped.
Sat there.
Chin resting on it.
Tongue flicking.
Staring.
Well… crap.
My first thought was practical: I’ll call Penny and she can give me a hand.
Then I remembered Bruce currently had my phone, which made that plan slightly less useful than I’d hoped.
What could a bullsnake possibly want with a phone anyway? Catch up on the latest season of Hell’s Kitchen? Order a couple of summer outfits off Shein? Maybe a cheeky Chinese off Just Eat?
Whatever his intentions were, he wasn’t giving it back voluntarily.
So, I had to go in.
Now, there is a trick with Bruce. It works better with his girlfriend Betty, if I’m honest, but I wasn’t dealing with Madam — I was dealing with Sir.
A gentle tap on the head usually does the job. Nothing dramatic. Just a light correction, usually administered by a hand. My hand.
Works with colubrids of all sizes, pythons, boas — if it’s got scales and a distinct lack of legs, the head tap tends to reset the conversation.
Bruce, however, had very different ideas.
I gave him a gentle tap on the head to encourage him to move.
He moved.
Just not in the way I’d hoped.
Bruce snapped straight at me, mouth open, tagging me in a defensive strike before recoiling so fast it was almost impossible to track with the naked eye.
Open-mouthed. Hissing. Fully committed.
Very much in character.
One of the most compelling things about bullsnakes is their vocalisation. Loud, proud, unflinching, and entirely unapologetic in its “don’t mess with me” delivery.
I’ve been called bull-headed in my time — mostly by my dad, occasionally by my mum, and always by Penny — so I suppose I should have seen this coming.
At that point, the game changed.
I didn’t particularly care how many times I got tagged. I was getting the phone back.
Five minutes later, the situation was resolved.
One mildly dishevelled 45-year-old man with a couple of flesh wounds.
One tired but still irritated bullsnake.
And one recovered mobile phone.
Hostage situation over.
I would love to tell you we both learned something from the experience.
We did not.
Bruce remains one of my absolute favourite animals to work with. He’s mostly bluff and noise, and that in itself is a huge part of his charm.
I wouldn’t change him.
And I hope, in some small way, he wouldn’t change me too much either.
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