When a rattlesnake rears up in front of Miss Pinon's pretty knees out of the long grass that's suddenly everywhere due to the Northern New Mexico monsoon season, rattling with a vengeance, forked tongue pointing in our direction, diamond-shaped head trained on us like a heat seeking missile, she is surprisingly calm.

I am not.

My neighbor M. and appaloosa horse Teyla trot up right on our tail. M. hasn't ridden much, and Teyla has been less than ladylike during our ride, throwing in a few crow hops en route and shaking her polka dotted head, her crazy mane standing up like buzz saw teeth, to let us know she's not happy with a newbie who's just gaining her balance. I feel that heavy sense of responsibility I always feel for any rider in my care. I say as calmly as I can "Rattler, M! Rattler. Right in front of us. Turn to the right. Turn to the right."

Actually, I think I'm hissing instead of whispering. And my heart is rattling around in my ribcage having just returned from my throat.

Pinon swings an arc around the seething, puffed up, coiled up, pissed off, at least five foot long and I am not exaggerating reptile. Luckily, Teyla follows her lead. M. is leaning over her saddle horn, peering into the weeds. "I don't see it," she says.

But I do. That rattler hasn't taken his eyes off of us. "There, take that," I suspect that bad boy is spitting and hissing with pleasure, as we disappear over the ridge.

I am happy to leave him behind.

My eleven-year-old son Cole is quite proud of the fact that he actually ate rattler (deep fried, I believe) in some roadside eating establishment in the great state of Texas while on a road trip with his dad.

Yecht and--take that, Mr. Rattlesnake.

Jack Bauer comes home from DC last night with another book on retiring in Costa Rica to add to our growing Central America library. Complete with a very large and very detailed map. He's interested in the Osa Peninsula. So am I--

But I understand there are some crocodiles down there, I tell him, not wanting to burst his bubble about potentially living in one of the most biologically rich areas of that country. We re-examine the map. He points to the other side of the Golfo Dulce. Maybe there, he says. I'm not living with crocodiles.

"They have white-lipped peccaries, too", I tell him. He looks at me, a question mark furrowing his brow.

Javalenas, I say, thinking of the snarling head with beady glass eyes and pointy teeth mounted in my former father-in-law's study, next to a plethora of other dead things. Now Jack Bauer knows what I'm talking about. Wild pigs for those of you who don't know. Razor backs on steroids, apparently. Remember the wild pigs in Old Yeller?

In the next sequence, Travis and Yeller go hunting for wild boar. Following the advice of Mr. Searcy, Travis seats himself on a tree limb and attempts to lasso the hogs with a rope. But the advice backfires, the branch breaks, and Travis falls into the midst of the enraged herd. This gives Yeller another opportunity to prove his courage as a rescuer. But the boy and the dog are both badly mangled. Travis seals the wounded dog in a cave and rides home for help.

This scene in that Disney movie nearly scarred me for life, and I saw it for the first time as a little bitty girl. I've been worried about any pig that's not pink and in a pen at the State Fair ever since. Except for sweet, amber-eyed Otis, who belongs to my neighbor M. (In the first grade, I reacted the same way to Alfred Hitcock's The Birds, eyeing every bird hanging around the swingset with suspicion for a couple of days after that. Luckily, not for a lifetime.)

One Wikipedia entry says, "Throughout the states of Arizona and New Mexico, collared pecarries are known as 'javelinas'. They are often seen around people's houses, with herds of them sometimes seen walking across driveways or porches. In some neighborhoods, they even live in backyards."

Not in mine.

Maybe they're afraid of the bobcat.

So this is yet another example of the fact that you can't believe everything you read in Wikipedia. So I wonder if this entry is yet another exaggeration. I hope so, since Jack and I are setting our sites on Central America one of these days.

The White Lipped Peccary is widely considered the most dangerous peccary; unlike the rather shy Collared Peccary, the White Lipped species will charge at any enemy if cornered, and when one of them is injured, the entire herd returns to defend it.

That last part sounds kind of like geese.

Geesh. It's taken me twenty years to get used to rattlers.

Guess it's good practice.