in excess of thirty years. In fact, one of the oldest known captive Burmese pythons died in 2009 at the ripe old age of 43. At the time of her passing, Julius Squeezer measured 18 feet long and weighed 220 pounds. Marty Bone, an avid snake enthusiast, had shared his home with Julius for 35 years, having acquired her as a full-grown adult. Bone attributed her exceptional longevity to both the freedom she enjoyed and the affection he showered upon her. Bone allowed Julius unfettered access to his home and, over time, she reportedly learned how to open doors merely by wrapping her body around doorknobs. Marty modified furniture in his home to better accommodate Julius, and even allowed her to curl up with him in bed. “At night she’d lay her head on me,” Bone recalled. “She was my bedmate, housemate . . . she was special to me.”
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Burmese pythons are strictly an Old World species. Still, much of our current knowledge about their natural history has come squarely from our experiences with them in the Western Hemisphere. Zoos, dealers, and private collectors have provided detailed information on their reproductive habits. University studies have furnished information on social behavior, feeding response, energy efficiency, and the effects of visual deprivation. Even the sad passing of Julius Squeezer in a private Utah home provided an important bit of data about potential species longevity.
The establishment of Burmese pythons in south Florida provided a simultaneous need, and opportunity, for further study and data collection. By 2006 it seemed evident that the python population in south Florida was growing larger. Just a few years prior, park employees were removing only two or three of them from the area annually (Figure 5). But beginning in 2002 the yearly figures began to make surprising jumps—staff removed 14 individuals in that year alone. The following year they removed 23 more. In 2004, the count jumped yet again to 70, then to 94 the following year. The park seemed poised to hit triple digits by 2006—a sobering milestone considering it only reflected those snakes that were captured and removed. The annual tallies didn’t include the many animals reported that subsequently got away. Nor did they reflect those that remained altogether unseen.
Increased awareness of the issue, the hiring of additional staff, a growing proficiency for capture, and a more concerted communications effort were all no doubt complicit in yielding higher rates of removal with every passing year. The clear statistical trend, however, was still unsettling. Evidence continued to mount suggesting the snakes were freely breeding in the wild. Park staff had thus far found pythons of various size classes throughout the Everglades, including juveniles. Newborn pythons had been recovered, some still bearing the ephemeral umbilical scars where their newly shed yolk sacs were once tethered. And several gravid females had been recovered—their innards packed to the walls with fertile eggs (Figure 6). Though the evidence of breeding was certainly compelling, it was not technically conclusive. Scientists had not yet happened upon the necessary “smoking gun”—neither copulation nor a nest site had been documented in the wilds of south Florida. To do so, scientists would need to learn as much as possible about the habits of this Old World serpent in its New World haunts.
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Exactly who is to blame for the introduction of Burmese pythons into the Florida Everglades is a topic of much speculation, interest, and heated debate. Those who found it difficult to fathom keeping large constrictors as personal pets were quick to point their fingers at those that actually did. After all, history had already shown a loose correlation between the increasing popularity of reptile ownership and the quickening pace with which new reptiles had begun to appear around homes and neighborhoods in south Florida. And for the most part, the same species popping up unexpectedly in the wild were largely the same scaly faces that could be found behind glass at the corner pet store. For many, it was logical to deduce that the pythons now proliferating in the Everglades were the latest example of a familiar cycle: impulse buys leading ultimately to accidental or intentional release.
In their defense, however, reptile enthusiasts and hobbyists adamantly refused to shoulder blame as a whole. Instead, many recognized that a small subset of irresponsible and inexperienced keepers could be found among them. If the pythons proliferating in the Everglades truly originated from the pet trade, it was not the fault of the overwhelming majority of diligent owners, but rather resulted from the negligent few who failed to provide proper enclosures, found themselves unprepared for the demands of ownership, or were simply too uninformed to know any better. Rather than malign an entire community of responsible reptile enthusiasts, they argued, energies would be better focused on better educating and regulating the irresponsible few.
But the irresponsible few remained difficult to find. Because people never believe themselves to be negligent keepers, no one ever stepped forward to volunteer their ineptitude or subject themselves to more stringent oversight. Nor did anyone ever plead mea culpa to the irresponsible handling of exotic wildlife. But even those who might have recognized some personal failure could still publicly divest themselves of any involvement in the growing python problem. Instead, they could clear their conscience by appealing to another popular scapegoat—the winds of Hurricane Andrew.
A Category 5 cyclone, Andrew dealt an infamously harsh blow to south Florida, culminating in the costliest natural disaster of its time. With peak winds of 165 miles an hour, the storm brutally punished communities in southern Miami-Dade County—flattening entire housing developments, snapping telephone poles and power lines, obliterating Homestead Air Force Base, and causing damage to Turkey Point Nuclear Power Plant. Andrew’s winds also hurled a seventeen-foot surge of water inland, leaving roads, yards, and trees littered with an incongruent placement of boats, traps, floats, and other flotsam. In its wake, the storm left behind over one billion dollars of losses in agriculture, and a totality of devastation that was difficult for victims to fully grapple with.
It is known that Hurricane Andrew was also responsible for the release of many captive animals from zoos, research facilities, and private collections in south Florida. Reports abound regarding the storm’s role in the appearance of rhesus monkeys, sacred ibis, Asian swamp hens, lionfish, and other species not formerly known to persist in the wild. One of the innumerable casualties reported in Andrew’s aftermath was a nascent reptile wholesaling business nestled on the outskirts of the Everglades in the then-rural town of Homestead. Housed in a flimsy former agricultural grow house, the facility was flattened during the storm, reportedly sending its thousands of cold-blooded occupants—including hundreds of baby Burmese pythons—into the howling atmosphere. Launched deep into the Everglades, it is believed by many that some of the snakes not only managed to survive the ordeal, but would go on to become the true progenitors of today’s problem population.
The “dispersal-by-tropical-cyclone” theory has been espoused by some and disputed by others. Contrary to the commonly accepted belief that today’s feral population is the result of numerous intentional or accidental releases over the years, genetic studies of populations recovered from the wilds of south Florida have revealed a close kinship among the animals. Those wanting to lay blame upon the furious winds of Andrew suggest these findings, coupled with known patterns of past importation, are in keeping with a single, large-scale release. Critics of this hypothesis, however, note that genetic similarity might only suggest a similarity of stock imported over time for trade. Furthermore, the remote outpost of Flamingo, from whence the population appears to have radiated, lies impossibly far from the former site of the reptile breeding facility. Had the storm resulted in a catastrophic release of individuals, how did they only find themselves in a remote expanse of tangled mangrove swamp over 40 miles away?
The debate over how Burmese pythons were introduced into the Everglades has led some observers unnecessarily into the weeds. In truth, documented encounters with large constrictors on the loose in Everglades National Park and elsewhere—including Burmese pythons—long predate the arrival of Hurricane Andrew. Irresponsible keepers had most certainly been implicated in the escape of snakes in the past. And yet, it was also entirely plausible that hurricanes and tropical storms could aid the release of far more. Numerous foreign species were documented to be running wild around south Florida in the still aftermath of Andrew. Reasonable minds could easily
