Click here for past issues of the Globe Magazine, dating back to June 22, 1997

Letters to the Magazine editor:
Mail can be sent to Letters to the Editor, The Boston Globe, P.O. Box 2378, Boston, MA 02107-2378. The email address is [email protected] or use our form.

Boy meets coil

Of course their son's roommate was welcome at home – even if Deuce was a boa constrictor.

"Tell Mom I'm bringing my roommate home tonight," our younger son said.

"She'll be delighted," I told him. His mother had always said she couldn't wait until her sons were in college and inviting their classmates from Pittsburgh and Pyongyang and points between home for the holidays. She never figured that the roommate would be Deuce.

Deuce McAlister Tuiasasopo, who comes from Brazil, is the new guy in the suite this year. He's a quiet, languid sort who likes to curl up and chill out. You would never know he's around, especially when he's hibernating.

Deuce happens to be a boa constrictor with sophomore standing. He's not one of those Wild Kingdom terrors who can strangle and swallow a water buffalo. Deuce, who is named after a couple of college football players, is still a youngster; he's a couple of feet long on a straight day. One live mouse will do him for a week or more.

He's almost part of the furniture, which is how we ended up with him. Since we're the closest family to the college, we're used to short-term storage - tables, microwaves, mini-fridges, VCRs, and whatnot. Until now reptiles haven't been on the list, but since Deuce couldn't be left in the dorm for two weeks, he came home with the laundry.

My wife hated Deuce even before she met him. Actually, what she hated was the idea of him, all slithery and slimy and serpentine. Most women I know despise snakes of any description. I think it's all about Eve, about apples and trickery and paradise lost.

Yet somehow, adolescent males think a boa constrictor is a chick magnet, and they can't understand why their female friends don't care to drop by during feeding time. Actually, though, a snake is an ideal pet for a dormitory. Dobermans are too rambunctious and cats demand stroking and litter boxes. All a boa wants is a simple terrarium with a gnarled root, a hollow log, a faux shrub, and a water dish.

Deuce was a bit snappish at first, until his roommates took him back to the pet shop and threatened to trade him in for a python. "Then the snake had an epiphany," our son reported, "and became cool."

By now, his suitemates have learned how to handle the boa. After a couple of semesters, they'll probably qualify for zoology credits. And Deuce has adapted nicely to college life. In fact, he's become the classic sophomore. He sleeps through breakfast. He blows off his 9 o'clock economics lecture. He puts everything off until reading period.

So it didn't seem odd at all having him around the house for a couple of weeks. I've never been much of a reptilephile, but I must admit that Deuce was a dream houseguest. He didn't leave wet towels or dirty dishes around. He didn't raid the liquor cabinet. He didn't need to be entertained. He just twirled himself into a Christmas bow and zzzz'd out for days at a time.

Still, my wife was profoundly uneasy at the thought of a tropical guest bunking across the hallway, even though the terrarium was double-locked. "I'm afraid I'm going to come in some morning and find him wrapped around our son's neck," she said. "He's just a baby boa," I assured her. "He's barely long enough to be an ankle bracelet. He's not even as long as his name."

Not now, anyway. But boas ain't gerbils. After a while, they outgrow a tabletop tank and start needing a rain forest. Right now, though, Deuce is still in the compact and cuddly stage, and I must say, I miss him.

I miss his serenity, his sangfroid, his sloth. He's a low-maintenance guy, and I wouldn't mind having him back for spring break if he doesn't take that student discount trip to the Amazon. He could even chill here for the summer. I just don't want him around when he's in grad school.