I woke up this morning to find Shadow—the unofficial HOA president of my front porch—coiled up like he’d been waiting for me. You know that look snakes get when they’re about to deliver bad news? Sort of a silent, judgmental squint. Shadow had it.

Apparently, he’s upset about “recent changes to porch policy.” I didn’t know we had porch policy. I also didn’t know he could file complaints.

But there he was, tail tapping like a tiny gavel, clearly ready to litigate.

His grievances, as best I could interpret:

• I moved the rocking chair. Shadow claims this disrupted his “commute.” I explained that most commutes don’t involve slithering under furniture, but he hissed something that sounded like “ableist.”
• I swept. He said this was “an act of aggression.” I said it was Tuesday.
• I stepped outside without announcing myself. He insists I should knock before entering my own porch. I told him that’s not how porches work. He said that’s exactly what someone who doesn’t respect boundaries would say.

Then he stared at me for a long moment—one of those slow, reptilian blinks that feels like a performance review—and slithered off to sunbathe, clearly exhausted from the emotional labor of managing me.

So now I’m living with the knowledge that my porch snake thinks I’m a menace.

I’m considering drafting a formal apology, maybe even offering him a tiny union card. But knowing Shadow, he’ll demand dental benefits, which seems unreasonable for a creature with fangs that regenerate like discount razor blades.

Anyway, that’s the update from the foothills: I’ve been reprimanded by a snake. Again.