My eight-year-old son’s penchant for exotic pets has seen him give shelter to three tarantulas, one giant albino snail and now a bright orange snake.
I don’t count my best mate Moosh the pug as a pet, exotic or otherwise. He’s more of a full family member – when he was younger he was like a furry son to me and now he’s getting on a bit he’s like an eccentric uncle I’ve grown particularly fond of.
Sadly one of Charlie’s spiders, Barry Bashington, died last month, leaving him with two spiders, Larry Livingston and Charlotte Trimble, and one cucumber guzzling snail called Gary, who like Cher, Madonna and Adele, requires no surname.
There was a gap in the market obviously and after Charlie came through the grieving process for tragic Barry, he was on the lookout for another wee pal.
After extensive research watching his favourite You Tube channels, he decided he wanted a snake.
Great idea, we thought, with Christmas just round the corner.
Except Charlie couldn’t wait for December 25 to roll around, so off we went to a pet shop in Paisley – well Moosh came from Girvan 11 years ago – to purchase Hypo Harry the Honduran milk snake and all his accommodation requirements and Charlie got his Christmas present in October.
I’m almost 45-years-old and Saturday night was the first time in my life I’ve ever held a real live snake, albeit a tiny wee one.
Now when I put on my cardigan and kick back to watch the Chicago Bears on Sunday people can’t say I’m boring.
At least not to my face.