Every now and then an animal chooses you.
Not in some mystical, Disney sort of way where woodland creatures sing songs and help you get dressed (which I still think is odd). This is reptile keeping, not Snow White. It's usually a bit less glamorous than that.
Sometimes it happens because you've spent months researching a species.
Sometimes because you've been waiting years for the right animal.
And sometimes...
...it starts with one very simple question.
"Do you want this little guy?"
Penny and I had travelled to collect several Californian garter snakes for the reptile department where we both worked. The breeder's collection was exceptional. Alongside some of the most beautifully maintained dart frogs I've ever seen were equally stunning garter snakes, each one vibrant with the impossible blues, reds and jet-black markings that make Thamnophis sirtalis one of the most striking snakes North America has to offer.
Everything about the visit was exactly as you'd hope. Healthy animals, knowledgeable breeder, good conversation and a smooth transaction.
Then, just as we were getting ready to leave, he asked us something neither of us expected.
"Do you want this little guy? He's got a neurological issue. We can't sell him... and we don't really want to euthanise him either."
Now, to most people, that might sound like a difficult decision.
To me and Penny...
...it may as well have been someone waving a red flag at a bull.
(Yes, I know that's technically a myth. Bulls react to movement, not the colour. Don't ruin the story.)
Of course we took him.
Of course he came home with us.
And, of course, he found himself joining what is rapidly becoming Britain's least exclusive club...
Our collection of gloriously imperfect animals.
Of course, there was one tiny problem. We had absolutely nothing ready.
No enclosure.
No carefully planned setup.
No shopping list.
No space earmarked for what was, at that point, an unnamed little garter snake whose future had changed in the space of about thirty seconds.
As usual, we'd gone out to collect animals for work and somehow managed to come home with another rescue.
Funny how that keeps happening.
Now, garter snakes have fascinated me ever since I first laid eyes on one in a tiny pet shop in West Heath. There was something about them that never quite left me. While most people were captivated by pythons and boas, I found myself drawn to these fast-moving, inquisitive little colubrids.
Over the years I'd immersed myself in everything I could find. I read papers, compared species, wrestled with changing taxonomy and followed the gradual shift in captive feeding recommendations as our understanding of these remarkable snakes improved.
I knew the natural history.
I knew the temperatures.
I knew the lighting.
I knew the diet.
On paper, I knew exactly how to keep a garter snake.
But experience has taught me that care sheets only tell you how to begin.
They don't tell you how to understand the individual.
For that...
I needed the garter snake to teach me what I'd got wrong.
After the initial examination, it quickly became obvious that the garters neurological condition was more than the occasional bout of stargazing or corkscrewing. His entire body carried a fine, constant tremor that never really stopped. Somewhere during those first few days he became "Parky". Like many nicknames, it wasn't particularly imaginative—it simply stuck.
We had a fair idea of what we were dealing with.
We knew it wasn't something that could be cured and suspected it might shorten his life. That wasn't a reason to give up on him—it was simply another piece of information to work with.
The objective was never to make Parky "normal".
The objective was to make him comfortable.
To give him the best quality of life we possibly could for however long he happened to be with us.
Everything else was secondary.
That evening I settled him into temporary accommodation, made sure he was warm, hydrated and left him to recover from what had already been a fairly eventful day.
The following morning, the real work would begin.
Because if Parky was going to teach me anything...
First, I had to build him a home
Building the enclosure itself was, in theory, fairly straightforward.
California garter snakes (Thamnophis sirtalis) aren't particularly difficult animals to accommodate. They appreciate a sensible thermal gradient, access to UVB lighting, slightly higher humidity than many colubrids and, ideally, a water bowl large enough for swimming. They're inquisitive snakes and many individuals will happily climb if given the opportunity.
Then there was Parky.
Given his rather obvious neurological issues, I decided climbing probably wasn't the wisest idea.
Spoiler alert - That was my first mistake.
Not because climbing wasn't risky.
Because I'd made the classic mistake of deciding how a garter snake ought to behave before asking Parky what he wanted to do.
Within minutes he'd climbed as high as he possibly could.
Then he fell off.
He climbed back up.
Fell off again.
Tried a third time.
Fell off a third time.
At this point I was beginning to realise that Parky and gravity were going to have a complicated on/off, Ross and Rachel relationship.
Back to the drawing board.
The answer wasn't to stop him climbing. The answer was to let him climb safely.
The enclosure was rebuilt using a lattice of overlapping branches laid almost horizontally, rather like a particularly untidy game of Jenga. Instead of a single high perch, Parky now had dozens of gentle routes across the enclosure, each one allowing him to explore while reducing the distance he could fall.
It worked beautifully.
Within a day he'd learnt to weave his way through the branches, climbing almost constantly, just as every care sheet had suggested he would.
It turned out the care sheet had been right after all.
I'd simply built the wrong climbing frame.
Feeling rather pleased with myself, I turned my attention to the water bowl.
Garter snakes swim.
They're famous for it.
Many populations spend much of their lives around water, feeding on fish, amphibians and just about anything else they can catch.
Parky...
...couldn't swim.
Not even slightly.
The first time he entered the water it became immediately obvious that this wasn't a snake who was going to appreciate a deep bathing pool.
That idea was quietly abandoned before he managed to get himself into trouble.
Another redesign.
Another lesson.
Now we had –
Plenty of hides.
Live plants.
A bioactive substrate.
A modest water bowl.
His carefully engineered climbing frame.
Heat.
UVB.
Everything finally seemed to be in place.
So...
Had I got it right?
Well, Parky answered that question far better than I ever could.
His days were spent exactly as you'd hope from an active, diurnal garter snake. He explored constantly, climbed through his tangled network of branches, investigated every corner of the enclosure and generally behaved as though he'd lived there his entire life.
I wasn't measuring success by the equipment I'd bought.
I was measuring it by the behaviour he was choosing to express.
For the first time since he'd arrived, I allowed myself a quiet little victory.
I'd won.
Or so I thought.
Because Parky had already moved on to the next item on his agenda.
Dinner.
If there's one thing garter snakes don't tend to be, it's fussy.
They're opportunistic predators in the truest sense of the word. Across their range they'll happily consume fish, amphibians, earthworms, rodents, birds, reptiles and an extraordinary variety of invertebrates. Captive animals are rarely any more selective, with many readily accepting rodents, fish, amphibians and even organ meats such as heart, liver and kidney.
If it looks edible...
...there's a reasonable chance a garter snake will at least give it some serious consideration.
At least...
Most garter snakes.
Not Parky.
To this day, he remains one of the pickiest snakes I've ever had the pleasure of frustrating myself with.
Which is saying something.
I've got a royal python that will only eat white mice every other Thursday at three o'clock in the afternoon. And you'd better hope it isn't raining. Or too sunny. Or that Mercury isn't in retrograde. Royal pythons have a reputation for being difficult feeders.
Parky looked at them and thought,
"Hold my ridiculously expensive frog leg."
For an entire week Penny and I tried almost everything a garter snake has ever been recorded eating. Fish. Amphibians. Rodents. Organ meats. If there was a paper, care guide or experienced keeper suggesting a garter snake might eat it, we gave it a go.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
After spending a small fortune on frog legs, chicken hearts and enough exotic delicacies to rival a Michelin-starred restaurant...
...do you know what finally won him over?
An earthworm.
Not an expensive one.
Not a carefully sourced one.
Just one I'd dug out of the garden.
Honestly.
We've managed to broaden his tastes a little since then. These days he'll happily take earthworms, fish and day-old pinkies.
That's it.
As for whether his neurological condition has anything to do with his rather particular palate...
I honestly couldn't tell you.
But, lacking any better explanation...
I'm blaming Parky.
Parky still climbs.
Still falls over occasionally.
Still turns his nose up at perfectly good food.
And still reminds me, almost daily, that animals have absolutely no interest in reading the care sheets we write about them and…
…I wouldn't change him for the world.
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