What You Need to Know Before Getting a Pet Snake

Okay so you think you want a snake.

Sit down. We need to talk.

Everyone You Know Is About to Ghost You

Picture this: You’re at a party, having a normal human conversation. Someone asks about pets. You mention your new ball python. Watch how fast that circle disperses. It’s like you announced you’re really into competitive yodeling but somehow worse.

Your dating profile says “snake owner” and suddenly you’re getting fewer matches than someone who lists their hobby as “collecting vintage toenails.” That’s not hyperbole. That’s data.

Here’s what happens to every relationship in your life:

Your mom? Stops visiting. Just… stops. Texts you instead. Short ones.

Your best friend? Still your friend but now there’s this weird energy where they stand near exits when they come over. They develop sudden “allergies” that prevent visits. To snakes. Which aren’t even… never mind.

Pizza delivery? Oh sweet summer child. They don’t even slow down anymore. Your pizza gets yeeted from a moving vehicle. You’ve got three seconds to grab it before the neighbor’s dog does. The drivers have a group chat about your house. There’s a warning system.

That coworker who seemed interested in you? They googled “snake owner personality types” and now they bring garlic to work. Not because they think you’re a vampire. That would be cooler. They just think you’re gonna snap one day and bring Kevin to the office.

(You might. Tuesday was rough.)

Your New Pet Is Basically Liquid Satan

Pet stores sell snakes in these nice little terrariums with secure lids and you think “perfect, contained danger noodle.”

WRONG.

Your snake looks at that enclosure the way you look at those escape room flyers. It’s enrichment. It’s a challenge. It’s Tuesday’s entertainment.

You’ll check the enclosure. Snake’s there. You’ll get a snack. Check again. Still there. Go to the bathroom. Come back.

Snake’s gone.

WHERE? How? The lid was LOCKED. The gaps are smaller than its HEAD. Physics says this is impossible but physics never met Kevin and Kevin doesn’t give a shit about physics.

The Hunt Begins

Finding an escaped snake is like playing the world’s worst game of hide and seek where the seeker might have a heart attack and the hider doesn’t even know they’re playing.

You’ll check:

• Behind the fridge (classic)
• Under the couch (predictable)
• Inside the walls (wait, what?)
• Your neighbor’s bathroom (HOW?)
• That spot you already checked nineteen times
• The toilet (please no)
• Your car’s dashboard (seriously Kevin?)
• Inside your pillow case (WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING)

Three days later you’ll find them in their enclosure looking smug. You’ll question reality. You’ll install cameras. The footage will show nothing. Kevin transcends surveillance technology.

Welcome to the Frozen Mouse Economy

Nobody talks about this part because it’s the part where normal people bail.

You’re gonna stand in line at PetSmart holding a bag of frozen mice while making eye contact with NO ONE. The bag is clear. Everyone can see. The cashier’s sixteen and judging you. The mom behind you is using you as a teachable moment about “life choices.”

But wait, it gets worse.

You gotta thaw these things. In your kitchen. Where you make food. There’s a dead mouse defrosting next to your leftovers and this is just… life now.

Feeding time is performance art. You’re dangling a room-temperature rodent with barbecue tongs (don’t use the good ones) while your snake evaluates it like a sommelier.

“Hmm, Tuesday’s mouse? No. This is clearly a Monday mouse. Take it away, peasant.”

Sometimes they eat immediately. Sometimes they wait three weeks out of spite. Sometimes they develop preferences so specific you start taking notes. “Kevin only eats small mice on Thursdays if Mercury is in retrograde and you play Enya.”

You’ll find yourself explaining this to another adult human and that’s when it hits you: you’ve lost the plot completely.

Your Heating Bill Is About to Look Like a Phone Number

Fun fact: snakes need the climate of Mercury’s taint to survive.

Your house becomes a terrarium. You’re running heaters, heat lamps, heating pads, and probably some heating devices that haven’t been invented yet. The electric company sends thank you cards. They name a wing after you.

You’ll own more thermometers than a hypochondriac. You’ll check them obsessively. “Is 88 degrees okay or does it need to be 89? What if it’s 87.5? IS KEVIN DYING?”

Kevin’s fine. Kevin doesn’t care. But you’re googling “snake hypothermia symptoms” at 3 AM anyway.

The humidity requirements? Your bathroom after a shower isn’t humid enough. You need industrial solutions. You’re misting the enclosure so often you develop carpal tunnel. You buy a humidifier that costs more than your couch.

One time the power goes out and you seriously consider setting furniture on fire to keep Kevin warm. This seems reasonable at the time. It’s not. Nothing about this is reasonable.

The Vet Situation Is a Whole Thing

Regular vets look at you like you brought in a cursed artifact. “We don’t… do… those” they say, backing away slowly.

Exotic vets exist theoretically. Like Bigfoot or affordable housing. When you find one they’re booked until 2027 and located in another time zone.

Your first appointment costs more than your car payment. The vet holds Kevin for thirty seconds, says “yep, that’s a snake,” and charges you $400.

You pay it. Gratefully. Because what’s the alternative? WikiHow? Yahoo Answers? That Facebook group where everyone’s solution is “add more humidity”?

Real Talk Nobody Prepared You For

Snake poop is a biohazard that happens once per geological era. When it does, you’ll need:

• Industrial gloves
• A hazmat suit
• Possibly an old priest and a young priest
• Definitely therapy

The smell. THE SMELL. It’s like something died, got reanimated wrong, died again, then decided to haunt your nostrils specifically.

They shed their entire skin like the world’s worst party trick. Just… the whole thing. Off. Like a snake-shaped sleeping bag of nightmares.

And you’ll keep it.

You’ll show it to people who didn’t ask.

This is who you are now.

The Sounds in the Night

Nobody mentions the 3 AM snake raves. Random thuds. Scraping. What sounds like furniture being rearranged but it’s just Kevin doing… something? Snake stuff? Who knows?

You’ll bolt upright at 3:47 AM because it sounds like someone’s breaking in but no, it’s just your pet rearranging his water bowl for the seventeenth time because apparently it wasn’t facing magnetic north or whatever snakes care about.

Stockholm Syndrome But Make It Reptilian

Here’s the thing that’ll really mess you up:

You’re gonna love this stupid creature.

Like, really love it. You’ll take 4,000 identical photos. You’ll narrate its activities to no one. “Oh look, Kevin’s moving to his hide. Big day for Kevin. Lots happening in Kevin’s world.”

You’ll buy tank decorations Kevin will completely ignore. Expensive ones. You’ll rearrange them thinking maybe THIS configuration will spark joy. It won’t. Kevin likes sitting in his water bowl like an idiot. That’s it. That’s his whole thing.

You’ll catch yourself talking to a creature with the emotional range of a particularly stoic cucumber. “Who’s a handsome boy? Is it you? Is it Kevin?”

Kevin doesn’t know. Kevin doesn’t care. Kevin’s thinking about escaping again.

Let’s Be Real About Why You Want This

You think a snake will make you interesting. The mysterious person with the exotic pet. Different. Quirky. Not Like Other Pet Owners™.

What actually happens:

You become the person googling “why won’t my snake poop” at your nephew’s birthday party. You develop passionate opinions about substrate types that literally no one asked for. Your Instagram becomes a Kevin fan account that your followers politely ignore.

Every conversation becomes snake-related. Every. Single. One.

“How was your weekend?” “KEVIN ATE TWO MICE.” “…HR would like to see you.”

You’ll find yourself defending snakes to people who never attacked them. “Actually, they’re very misunderstood creatures—” Stop. They don’t care. Nobody cares. Your mom’s just trying to eat her salad without hearing about Kevin’s feeding schedule.

The Verdict

Should you get a snake?

No.

Will you get a snake anyway?

Obviously.

Because somewhere deep down, the idea of being a snake person appeals to you in a way that defies logic, reason, and basic self-preservation instincts. You’ve already named it, haven’t you? You’ve already looked at morphs. You know what morphs are now. God help you.

Welcome to the club. We meet never because we’re all at home looking for our snakes.

Kevin’s in your walls, by the way. He’s been there this whole time. He’s probably made friends with whatever else lives in there. They’re planning something.

Better go check.