When I first adopted Safran, a young Burmese python found abandoned in a box outside an animal shelter in Phoenix, everyone I knew warned me I was out of my mind. “Snakes aren’t pets,” my sister kept saying. “They tolerate you. That’s it.” But I didn’t care. I lived alone, worked long hours as a medical lab assistant, and the quiet company of a creature that asked nothing from me felt comforting.
For years, Safran was predictable. She stayed in her large enclosure, ate frozen rats twice a week, and spent most days coiled under the heat lamp. But sometime last winter, her behavior began to shift. At first, it was small things: she spent more time pressed against the glass, watching me move around the room. Then, she stopped eating her meals—just refused them, week after week. I thought she might be sick.
But the strangest behavior came next.
One night after a long shift, I forgot to secure the latch on her enclosure. When I woke up at 3 a.m., cold air brushing my arm, I found Safran lying along my body from head to toe, perfectly straight. Her tail was near my ankles; her head rested just beside my shoulder. I nearly screamed, but she wasn’t attacking—just lying there calmly. I told myself she was seeking warmth.
Then it happened again the next night. And the next. Even when I secured the latch afterward, she found ways to push it open. Each time, she slithered onto my bed quietly and aligned herself with me before curling slightly around my waist. I posted online, hoping for reassurance. “It means she trusts you,” someone wrote. “She loves you,” said another.
I wanted to believe that.
But her appetite didn’t return. She looked thinner, her movements slower but intentional—always reaching for me. After two months of this, worry outweighed affection. I made an appointment with a reptile veterinarian, Dr. Hale, known around Phoenix for handling exotic pets.
The morning of the appointment, Safran barely moved as I lifted her into the carrier. At the clinic, Dr. Hale examined her, asked questions, took notes. Then he removed his glasses, looking at me with a seriousness that tightened my chest.
“Anya,” he said slowly, “what you’re describing… it isn’t affection.”
My breath caught. “Then what is it?”
He hesitated before answering.
“She’s preparing.”
Preparing for what?
And why did the room suddenly feel colder?
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. “Preparing?” I repeated. “For what? She’s been sick, hasn’t she?”
Dr. Hale folded his hands. “No. Safran isn’t sick at all. In fact, her organs look normal. Her blood panel is clean. But her behavior tells me something else.” He paused. “She’s starving herself deliberately.”
That made no sense. “Why would she do that?”
“Because large constrictors will sometimes fast for weeks—sometimes months—when they’re preparing to take down prey much bigger than their usual meals.”
My stomach twisted into a cold knot. “Are you saying—”
“She’s sizing you up,” he said gently. “When she lies next to you, straight like that, she’s measuring you. When she coils slightly, she’s testing how you respond to pressure. She isn’t trying to cuddle. She’s checking if she can overpower you.”
My legs went weak. I had spent months letting a predator slither into my bed, thinking it was affection. I remembered how she circled my waist, how tightly she sometimes held me before relaxing. I had brushed it off as “hugging.”
I felt sick.
Dr. Hale continued, “She hasn’t attacked you because she isn’t ready. Pythons are cautious hunters. They don’t risk a struggle unless they’re certain.”
I stared at the floor, trembling. “What do I do?”
“We need to relocate her. Immediately. A secure facility, a sanctuary—somewhere she can’t harm you or anyone else.”
I agreed without hesitation.
Within two days, Safran was transported to a reptile conservation center outside Tucson. I couldn’t bring myself to watch them load her into the truck. The director, Ms. Carmichael, promised to send updates.
But a week later, she called me.
“Anya, there’s something you should know,” she said. “During intake, our team did a routine ultrasound. We found… objects inside her stomach that did not belong.”
My heart pounded. “Objects?”
“A metal ring, likely jewelry. A small key. And what looks like a part of a fabric pouch.”
I froze. My grandmother’s gold ring had gone missing in February. And a spare storage key I kept on a low shelf had disappeared around the same time. I had blamed myself for losing them.
But I hadn’t lost them.
Safran had taken them.
And suddenly, a horrifying picture formed: long nights when I thought she was sleeping, but she must have been crawling silently through my house—reaching shelves, knocking over drawers, exploring every corner with patient, predatory curiosity.
How long had she been preparing?
And how close had I come to being her final target?
Two weeks after her relocation, I drove down to the conservation center to see Safran one last time—not to bring her home, but to find closure. The facility was quiet, surrounded by cactus fields and desert wind. Ms. Carmichael led me to a secure observation room. Through the glass, Safran rested inside an enormous enclosure, calm under the warm lights.
She looked peaceful.
Beautiful, even.
But she was not mine anymore—and never truly had been.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Ms. Carmichael said softly. “People mistake silence for gentleness. But animals follow instinct, not emotion.”
I nodded. “I thought she loved me. I thought I understood her.”
“There’s no shame in wanting connection,” she said. “But with wild animals, love isn’t part of the equation. Only instinct.”
We talked a while longer. She returned the objects found in Safran’s stomach after they were safely cleaned: my grandmother’s gold ring and the small storage key. Holding them made something inside me settle. Safran hadn’t acted out of malice. She had acted out of nature—exploring, hunting, testing the world the way a python does.
That night, back home in my quiet apartment, I stood in the doorway staring at the empty corner where her enclosure once stood. The room felt larger now. Safer. But lonelier too.
I cleaned the space, boxed her old supplies, and finally allowed myself to breathe freely. I learned something important—something I wished someone had told me years ago: trust should be earned, not projected. I had wanted affection so badly that I invented it where it didn’t exist. I mistook proximity for love, stillness for loyalty, routine for bond.
The truth was simpler and harder.
Safran had been an apex predator living quietly beside me.
And I had been lucky.
As I slipped my grandmother’s ring onto my finger, I whispered a thank-you—not to Safran, but to the people who intervened before instinct turned fatal.
I hope others hear this lesson too.
Because sometimes the danger we ignore is the danger that grows closest—and sharing the truth might save someone else.
