Walking in the gardens of the estate, the remains of a small hognose snake came into view. It is not uncommon to occasionally encounter this creature or one of its relations slithering through the lawn. They serve a beneficial purpose, and their bite is not fatal to the bitten, so I avoid disturbing their activities.
No noticeable wounds, only a few distortions along the middle of its body. The poor creature was moved to a more appropriate resting place, though curiosity lingered as to how it had met its untimely end.
The list of suspects quickly formed:
First, Mrs. Possum, who occasionally frequents the backyard with her young family.
Second, the black cat, Raven.
Third, the large, fluffy cat, Smoky.
And fourth, the energetic Siberian Husky, Tipper.
In true Agatha Christie fashion, the suspects were mentally assembled and the summation began.
“Raven, where were you that night?”
Raven, inscrutable as always, would answer: “The usual places.”
Too small to inflict such damage on a snake of that size, she was dismissed from suspicion.
Attention then shifted to Smoky, the larger of the two cats. But Smoky is a lover, not a fighter. His ambitions extend no further than dinner, a convenient leg to rub against, and, in colder weather, a warm lap. Smoky was excused.
Mrs Possum remained a viable suspect. Strong, capable — but had the possum been the culprit, there would likely have been tooth marks, some evidence of sharper violence. None were found. The body bore no such testimony.
That left the Siberian husky.
A sharp turn toward Tipper.
“Tipper. You possess both strength and enthusiasm. The evidence suggests broken bones.
Was it you?”
Her reply, if translated from earnest blue eyes:
“Oh, I’m so sorry. It looked like a wiggly rope. I only wanted to play. Had it been known to be a living hognose, far greater gentleness would have prevailed. A simple game of tug-of-war — that was all.”
Case closed.
4 March 2026
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