Tim Dowling: how do we put Mr Rogers the snake out of his misery?

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/may/24/tim-dowling-humane-killing-snake-mr-rogers

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For several days I manage to shirk my obligation to do something about our terminally ill snake, Mr Rogers. I've let it be known that it's a bad week for me, that I am much too busy to kill any pets. Mr Rogers will just have to wait until I can find a hole in my schedule for his murder.

To be honest, I was sort of hoping that Mr Rogers would just die in the meantime. The tumour protruding from his mouth is now as big as his head. His eyes have gone white and opaque. He hasn't eaten in two or three months. He is dehydrated and discoloured, and sits in his cage coiled in the same position. He never moves. It looks as if he might quietly slip away at any moment.

Except that this is not my experience with corn snakes. Mr Rogers' companion snake, the late Mrs Hammerstein, lived on for months despite an obviously fatal, cat-related injury. We were poking bits of mouse down its throat with tweezers in the end. Mr Rogers is not going to concede easily, unless someone intervenes. My wife has decided that someone should be me.

"You've got to cut his head off," she says. She's researched the humane killing of snakes – she Googled it, basically – and has settled on this as the quickest, kindest method; certainly better than freezing. My own research seems to suggest that in many cases the words "most humane" are used to mean "least gross" by the squeamish. As far as I can work out, instant snake death is most assured by a thorough crushing; someone online actually suggests running it over with a car.

"It would be difficult to organise," I say. "But if I just happened to be driving to Sainsbury's, and you were at a certain corner…"

"Decapitation," she says. "Tomorrow." I look at my hands for a long time. We've had Mr Rogers for eight years.

"I will do it," I say. "But that's all I'm doing." I know she understands this to mean that she will be dealing with anything that could be described as "aftermath".

After the children have gone to school the next day, my wife raises the subject yet again.

"OK," I say. "A bit later."

"Let's get it done," says my wife. "I've got to go out."

"All right, Lady Macbeth," I say. "Keep your hair on."

My wife goes to fetch the cage, and I go to the shed to select an appropriate instrument of dispatch. Eventually I settle on a lawn-edging tool, with its flat, half-moon blade. I find the sawn-off end of a scaffolding plank and place it on the patio, while the cat looks on.

I'm not feeling guilty about putting Mr Rogers out of his misery – he has no quality of life, and I say this as someone who has always assumed that being a snake sucks at the best of times – but beheading things is not my cup of tea. A mackerel, I'm OK with – everything else lies outside my comfort zone. After this, I think, I'm done with snakes.

My wife appears without the cage. She's holding a blue plastic bag instead. It's not empty.

"Mr Rogers is dead," she says.

"Really?" I say. I don't feel disappointment; just a tinge of sadness and a certain lack of purpose. I have a sudden, strong desire to trim some lawn edges.

I happen to be staring out the window at the bit of plank on the patio when the middle one returns home from his GCSE exam.

"There's some sad news about Mr Rogers," my wife says. The boy nods seriously.

"He went to live on a farm," I say.