My cat George brings me gifts on a regular basis. Last week, he outdid himself.

George is 6, and a seasoned hunter, but always he is perfecting his skills, challenging himself to bigger and more elusive prey. Over the years, he has graduated from mice and birds to fully grown rabbits and, during the last few months, snakes.

The snakes hang out in the rocks decoratively placed around The Tree (for its size and beauty, it is now considered nearly a family member, well-deserving of capital letters) and in the drainage rocks at the edge of our neighbor's lawn. They are garter snakes. Small, harmless, helper snakes with a lust for insects and no desire for human - or feline - interaction.

George is whittling away at their population, certainly wreaking serpentine grief among the clan.

He brought the first snake in about six weeks ago. Robby reported seeing a live one curled on the carpet. He picked it up, took it outside and released it.

The next was not so lucky. It, too, was curled onto the carpet, but it would never uncoil again. I dumped this stiff bit of reptile into a Wal-Mart bag and gave it a proper burial in the trash can at the nearby park.

In the weeks since, we've found them here and there, some dead, some alive, all in the basement. The live ones are released, the dead get a visit to the park.

Last Tuesday, I found yet another. Definitely dead.

I saw it, what was left of it, during a search for a set of curtains hastily unpacked and jammed into a place uncertain. The cabinet in Robby's basement TV room was my best guess. I had just the place for them, and, excited as always at the prospect of decorating, flew down the stairs with that weird little surge of joy only female homeowners can understand.

The cabinet in which I was sure the curtains were stored was streaked with dried blood. Hanging from its door was a snake's body. Rather, a portion of a snake's body. The portion I could not see was trapped in the cabinet door, it appeared. The portion I could see was only about six inches long, tapering off into an umblicial-like cord of dried blood.

Dear little George apparently had torn the thing apart as it hung, suspended, from the cabinet. Just how this had transpired I did not know. Or care. My gag reflex sprang to life.

I pride myself on my farm girl upbringing, which I believe makes me tough and not easily shaken. In the wake of George's successful hunting trips, I've cleaned up many a rabbit's head. Black, shiny, sightlessly staring rodent eyes don't particularly bother me. Nor do the bits of intestine sometimes left behind. Dead birds, mice, stiff but intact snakes? Bring them on.

This was none of those things. I approached the body with a paper towel in hand, and wrapped it around the six inches of body remaining. I tugged, lightly. The hose-shaped object was going nowhere. I tried to raise the top of the cabinet up with my hand. It barely moved.

I envisioned the snake's head on the other side. I envisioned it separating from the body if I pulled hard. I envisioned myself puking on Robby's carpet.

I ran back upstairs, my homeowner joy replaced by near buyer's remorse. This was one of the aspects of homeownership upon which I'd never counted. I felt ill-equipped to handle it. I was no longer the proud, independent divorcee who single-handedly maintained my wee homestead. I was merely a woman, in need of a man.

I called the neighbor.

Mike was at my door within 10 minutes. He entered carrying a gallon-sized flashlight, a wrench and thick, canvas gloves -- appropriate tools, I thought approvingly, for a bloody snake of undetermined but surely massive size. I ushered him downstairs. He stared at the cabinet door. He grimaced. I felt thoroughly vindicated. Even a being ruled by testosterone was repulsed by the sight.

That was all the satisfaction I got. Mike walked over and gave the top of the cabinet a firm yank. It fairly flew up, making a three-inch gap from which he pulled the snake. He removed about three, thin inches of snake tail, which he dropped into his own Wal-Mart bag and took with him.

"Hopefully next time, I'll call with a real emergency," I said, thanking him and feeling small, helpless and oh-so-typically female.

He waved it off. "For most people, that is a real emergency."

I wanted to say, "But I am not most people!" But realized this was not the time or place, and that my voice would lack conviction.

I still cannot figure out how the snake got into its fatal position. My best guess is that George brought it in live and let it go, that the snake slithered up into the cabinet in an attempt to escape and, discovering there was no out there, turned around and came out -- into George's waiting claws and teeth. For George, batting at the helplessly dangling reptile must have made for a merry game.

Yesterday, I watched George catch another snake. He waited with that impressive hunter's brand of patience, then jammed a paw between two rocks and pulled up a pitifully small fellow. George's mouth closed around it, and I saw the snake coil. Tail straight up with obvious pride, George carried it into the backyard and down the steps into the basement.

I ran for the camera and took several pictures of feline and serpent before releasing the unharmed but surely changed small snake into rocks. I took them to record so people would believe my stories of George's snake-hunting prowess. But mostly, I took them to send to a dear friend, who is terrified of snakes. She will never, she says, set foot in my basement again. And George, whom she once adored, now gives her the shudders.

As for me, I'm closing the sliding glass door at night now. It's the portal through which George travels on his nightly excursions, and it has remained open every day since we moved to Peacock Drive. My excuse is that it's getting killed. But the truth is, I think George needs to get reacquainted with his food dish.

Another shooting star crossed my path this evening. Unlike last time, I didn’t wish for love. Instead, I wished for a truly satisfying job.

Oops. Wasn’t supposed to tell you that, was I? Maybe that explains why a guy on a white horse hasn’t trotted into my life after the last shooting star blog. Hmm.

Which also likely means I’ve just sealed my fate, and will be a Medicare/Medicaid insurance marketer for life. This is truly terrifying.

Anyway, I was going to blog about why I am so dissatisfied with my job. But that would be dull, tedious and depressing – which basically is the why of the whole thing anyway.

Instead, I’d like to introduce you to three of the most memorable characters I’ve met during the last year of selling and marketing Medicare health insurance.

Her name was Anne. She was, at 82, still a stately, graceful woman, the kind of person whose very appearance inspires respect and admiration. Anne had enrolled in the program with me during my first days as a saleswoman. Our paths crossed again when she visited the senior medical clinic in which I market the plan every Wednesday morning. We recognized one another as she and her husband prepared to check out after her appointment.

“How are you?” I asked.

She smiled, but sighed. “Much better. I’m finally done with six weeks of radiation.”
I expressed sympathy.

“You wouldn’t believe what it does to your skin,” she said. “It’s all in my breast area, or where my breast used to be.”

Anne drew nearer to me and slid a hand into her button-front shirt, just below right shoulder. That side of the blouse slid down. But it was no accident, I suddenly realized. From there, it unfolded like a bad dream.

I sat up straight, the word “no” stuck in my throat as Anne exposed her bra to me, then reached in and pulled down the right cup.

I saw red, raw skin underneath her armpit, boiling down onto what once was her breast but was now a flat expanse with a seam extending about four inches that side of her chest.

Her husband’s back was turned. He saw none of this. Neither did the receptionist, who was perusing the appointment book for an open slot in which to schedule Anne’s next visit.

“Ouch,” I said, then flinched at my own choice of word. “That looks very painful.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

She pulled her bra back into its proper position, readjusted her blouse and gave me a relieved smile. “But it’s over now.”

I nodded in agreement. “Thank God,” I said.

My second most memorable Medicare encounter was with a middle-aged Medicaid recipient who lived in a cracker box house in a blue-collar section of suburban Denver. Dani answered my knock with a big grin that exposed yellowed teeth. But 32 yellowed teeth, of that I was quite sure.

Dani did not live alone.

As my eyes adjusted from the Colorado sunshine to the dim interior of Dani’s house, I saw an elderly woman propped up in a single bed in the middle of the living room. Curled next to her was a tiny dog of undefined lineage. The only definite thing about the dog was that he was ugly. And yippy. And untrained.

He stood up at the sight of me, released a series of stacatto yelps, jumped down from the bed and up onto my black dress pants. I cooed a bit, as I always do to dogs, and waited expectantly for either Granny or her daughter to call the little bugger off. No one did.

Granny stared, unblinking, at the TV, from which the immediately recognizable applause of a “Price is Right” audience blared.

My sales manager had once told me “Price is Right” was a staple of our demographic.
No one offered to turn the television down, although the older woman finally did pay some attention to the dog.

“Taco!” she shouted. “Shut up!”

Dani sat on a love seat between Granny’s bed and the TV and patted the cushion next to her. I sat, and pulled out a brochure about our plan, going into my spiel about its benefits.

Dani, nodding and “uh-huh”-ing in agreement, lit a cigarette. She took a deep drag, then let it dangle from between her fingers, about two feet under my chin. Smoke curled up, making a beeline for my nostrils.

In about two seconds, I’d thought the situation through. I was in Dani’s home, trying to sell her our insurance plan. If I were a guest, I’d have politely objected, asked the cigarette be snuffed out or taken into another room. I’d have stood up for my right to clean air. As a saleswoman, I didn’t feel I had a leg to stand on.

Besides which, the dog was sniffing at my feet. If I stood up, I’d likely squish the little darling.

Dani saw a long list of specialists. Amazingly, all of them contracted with our company – except for her psychiatrist. And this, she finally decided, was OK. His partner was on our list. “He knows me,” she said. “I’ll just switch to him.”

Dani smiled and turned to the woman in the bed.

“What do you think, Mom? This sounds good, doesn’t it? You think I should sign up?”
Mom didn’t so much as cut her eyes toward her daughter. She frowned in annoyance.

“I don’t give a damn, Dani,” she said. “It’s your decision.”

Dani enrolled.

Two days later, she called back, her tone frantic.

“There’s been a problem in the family,” she said.
I didn’t ask for details, but I wondered: Had Granny taken poorly to the news that Bob Barker was retiring?

“I can’t leave my psychiatrist right now,” she said. “Please, don’t enroll me.”

Lastly was Lila, a small, outspoken woman who resides in an assisted living facility. Lila and most of her housemates are mentally incapacitated, a polite, medical term for “off one’s rocker.”

I knew within moments of starting my presentation to them that it was wasted breath. They stared at me, smiling vacantly. Their only interest was in the lunch I’d brought for them. I cut the talk short.

“Is anyone hungry?” I asked. Lights blinked on in all 16 pairs of eyes.

The building was short-staffed, so I helped fill plates and serve the residents.

“No meat, no salad, just fruit,” Lila said, shouting more than speaking. Most of the residents already were eating. The room was largely silent. Her voice echoed.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I need fruit. Lots of it. Good for the bowels.”

She grinned at me, and I swear I saw mischief in her eyes.

I looked around me. Not a single staff person was in the room.

“I have problems with my bowels,” she continued, her voice still booming. “Do you understand? My bowels. They don’t move like they should.”

A woman at another table tittered. No one else reacted at all. The lights I’d seen flicker so briefly had once again gone off. They were almost completely focused on food.

I wasn’t embarrassed. Only repulsed. Remember, yours truly is a woman who doesn’t allow her son to fart in the house. The mental picture of a straining Lila, combined with the very real vision of her tablemates’ plates of barbecued beef, threatened to trigger my gag reflex.

I turned away from Lila hastily. Still, she rattled on.

“If I don’t eat fruit, I have to take a pill,” she said. “To make my bowels move. That’s what the pill’s for. It tastes awful! So I eat fruit. Lots of it. Bring me lots of it, OK? Good for my bowels.”

I filled a plate with chunks of watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple, grapes and strawberries.

The house manager slipped silently back into the room.

“Everything OK?” she asked me, smiling brightly.

“Yes, I think so,” I said, placing the plate before Lila.

“Thanks, honey,” Lila shouted. “I’ll eat it all. This will move my bowels. Then I don’t have to take that awful pill.”

The manager’s face reddened, and she smiled at me again, this time apologetically.
“Lila!” She strode over to the table at which the tiny woman sat. “You know we don’t talk about that in the dining room!”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, turning back to me. “She doesn’t understand.”

Weeks later, I’m still not so sure about that. I suspect Lila, by revealing that brief flicker of amusement, may have let me in on our little secret. And knowing I’d be gone, only me.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I hope Lila was having a little fun. As disgusting as the subject matter may have been, for that I could only admire her.