January 6, 2006 my husband fell in love. While most women would be angry at this, I found it amusing at the time. Around a foot long, skinny as a pencil, this testy little Jungle Carpet x Diamond Python broke his resolve of not buying anything and became a part of our family. Our first jump away from Ball Pythons. We christened him Samson.

We cared for him, treated his worms and mites (thanks caring salesmen at the Repticon Show in Columbia, SC). We watched him thrive. Foot and foot, Samson grew until he was over 7 feet long, and still just as testy as the day he came home. He was your typical carpet python, he was territorial of his enclosure, so my husband grew accustomed to his bite. I wasn't a big fan of Samson (I'm such a weenie, I didn't feel like being bit lol), but he was my husband's buddy. While I made sure he had food to eat, helped monitor his enclosure temperatures, etc, my husband bonded with this particular legless creature. I enjoyed the show.

As Samson grew from neonate to adult, I can't even remember the different color variations he went through. Each shed was like Christmas; we had no idea what he'd look like. He started out gray and silver, and ended up gray, silver and a dull yellow. Not as attractive as the typical Diamond or Jungle, but he was beautiful to us; but still a mean little turd sometimes.

He and I had a love hate relationship. He loved me when I brought him food, but any other time, I was someone to taunt. For years, our computer was in the same room as our snakes, and as I'd sit at the computer late at night, I'd have this overwhelming feeling of being watched. When I'd look, there was Samson, hovering from his branches, staring at me. I'd watch him for a minute, then turn back to the task at hand and would hear THUMP! I'd look at him again and he'd be hanging down, and a tiny wet spot visible on the plexiglass where he'd struck towards me. See, complete turd.

And what a eater! While we cursed and worried (mostly for nothing) over our Balls not eating, Samson was, what I liked to call him, The Clean Up Man. If it moved, it died. No prekill for him! Toss him what the others didn't want, and he was happy to oblige. Honestly, I never remember Samson denying a meal. He knew he was a snake, born to kill, and I think he enjoyed it as much as he did eating (I know this is anthropomorphism, but hey, that's what it seemed like). And being hatched in an incubator, with no mother to teach him manners, Samson enjoyed playing with his food. After constricting it, he'd hold it (mice, rats as he was older) in his mouth and rub them against the inside of the feed tank, sometimes taking almost an hour to eat. For some reason, I always got a mental image of Daniel in the Karate Kid, you know, wax on, wax off.

We lived in a peaceful, healthy existence for years. Then Samson stopped biting my husband. That was the first sign, but my husband thought I was being silly and paranoid. He's eating, he's not showing signs of any sickness, he's fine, I was told over and over. But I knew, in my gut, something was wrong. Mother's intuition? A snake doesn't bite you 8 out of 10 times and just suddenly stop.

The second sign, Mr. Clean Up Man stopped eating, and became constipated. Another characteristic change.

About a month later, the mucus showed up. Lots of it, blowing snot bubbles everywhere. All the years we'd kept snakes, we'd never had an illness. So it sent us into a panic. I figured it was a respiratory infection, and we load up and rush to the ER vet. Sounds silly to more experienced keepers, I know, but there's more to the story.

Respiratory Infection, duh, who wouldn't have known that? Gave us baytril pills and sent us on our way. Ever given a moody snake that you aren't overly fond of handling a pill? I got to be up close and personal with those tiny razor blades he called teeth as I poked a pill down his throat. We made Samson an appointment with his regular vet and figured he'll be well in a few weeks.

Samson's regular vet switched him to injections (thank you!), told my husband he'd have to flatulate him (ever done it? Now THAT'S an experience) and sent him on his way. And after two rounds of antibiotics, he was well, and back on his regular feeding schedule. Normal right?

About two months later, the mucus was back, this time with a rasp. Another trip to the vet, a different antibiotic, and go home to treat again. Two rounds of those and back to his old self.

Three months later, mucus again. This time accompanied with labored breathing and bigger booger bubbles. It's either set him up to make snot balloon animals at the circus or take him to the vet. (Anyone seeing a pattern?)

We continued this for a year. Get sick, load him up with injection antibiotics, get well for a few months, get sick again. Each time, our vet told us it was a respiratory infection. And I have to admit, that's exactly what it looked like. So why wasn't poor Samson keeping it away? Each time, he grew weaker, each stint of being sick lasted longer than the last.

September 2011...we decide to see a different vet, just to get some fresh ideas. Because we know two things for sure, we're running out of time, and out of money. Samson meds are changed yet again (he was on so many, please don't ask me the names, because I can't remember them all). But this time, he was on injections everyday and breathing treatments every 3rd day for a month. And again, Samson improved--until the medication stopped, then immediate decline.

My husband and I sit down and have a discussion we shouldn't be having about a 5-6 year old snake...should we put him down? At this point, he's been off feed for two months, been through hell (excuse the language) with injections and stress, and is getting worse by the day. We decide on one last trip to the vet.

So one more time, Samson makes the journey with us to our vet (who knows us by our face now) and I pound him with questions. Are we sure it's an infection? Could it be viral? What kind of tests can we run? We don't have a lot of money, but we want to do as much as we can. Not to mention all the money we've forked out over the past year and still have a very sick snake. They run some cultures on him and low and behold his mucus shows no signs of infection.

Hello new problem. If it's viral, we know there's little chance. I break down and cry like a baby, over this snake that I've fussed about with his nasty attitude and evil look in his eye. I sob while my big, strong husband tries to contain his own tears. I cry because I feel such guilt, that he's suffered this long, struggled so hard to hold on to life, and in the end we really weren't helping him. I cry because I know the end soon approaches. I cry because I'm not ready to say goodbye. I cry because I constantly had something mean to say about his attitude. The vet hugs me, I can see he's feeling sympathy for us. "Leave him with me for the day," he says, "I want to read up, and try a few things. Don't give up on him."

When my husband returns, the vet tells him Samson has been given vitamin A, B, C & D injections. He's been dewormed again, given an experimental shot for feline herpes (causes extremely contagious respiratory infections in cats and is fatal and incurable), 50 ccs of fluid and the vet tells us if he's not better in a week, there's nothing else he can do.

Our vet is competent. He's not a licenses herp vet (there are only 2 or 3 I think in the US), but he does work with reptiles. He treats the reptiles at our local zoo. I know he's not clueless. But I'm angry, oh so angry. By being angry at him, I deflect some of the anger from myself. I just want to yell at him, tell him he should have told us that before we left him there that day. Because we'd decided to put him down, end his suffering, depending on what we were told. We left there with hope that morning, only to return with disappointment.

That was a Tuesday, October 11, 2011. Samson left us six days later, on the 17th. We sat with him as he took his last breath. Completely unfair, he was far too young.

Those last six days, I'd look at him and hate that he had to suffer so. Like we had the past year, we continued to search the internet, hoping in vain to find an answer.

Three days before he passed, we think we did. We read mixed opinions on it, Diamond Python Syndrome. Some believe it's real, some don't. But the symptoms matched, some exact. The age was about right.

In my opinion, Diamond Python Syndrome is real. More experienced keepers may think I'm silly. Maybe I am, maybe it's my way of still trying to deflect responsibility.

And every day, I miss calling Samson a complete turd.